Nameless
by Kristen Sharpe
Summary: It's a difficult thing, putting yourself back together again. Piece by piece. Memory by memory. It was like alchemy. The slowest transmutation he had ever performed. Primarily genfic with hints of Royai.
1. Book 1: Chapter 1: Sunday Night

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Eventual violence, particularly of the Scar and Kimblee sort.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> This is set in an alternate timeline of the first anime world. Several characters have had their timeline shifted back thirty years while others remain as they were in the canon. This is my entry for this year's FMA Big Bang Challenge. Many thanks go to my wonderful beta readers, SageSK and Kayca, as well as to my awesome artist for this project, bay115. Visit my Livejournal link to see the included art.

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

He drifted. He had been drifting for so long. Names and faces, cities and countrysides flowed past him in an endless stream of dreams and memories.

Good dreams.

The familiar glow of a transmutation. The thrum of energy under his hands.

The sun high in a cloudless summer sky. Water catching the light as the mud of the creek bed squeezed up between his toes.

His mother's smile. His little brother's laugh.

Bad dreams.

A monstrous eye that snapped open to stare into his very soul. His little brother's scream.

A cold, leaden weight in his stomach as the encoded research before him finally yielded up its terrible, awful truth. Shock and horror making a funeral pyre of the last of his hope.

The burning of a bullet lodging in his only flesh leg. Blistering cold biting into his unprotected cheek as soldiers tackled him into the snow.

But, something was stirring, interrupting his world of dreams. Voices whispered at the edges of his subconscious.

"_Asking._"

"_Again._"

"They're_ asking about _it_ again._"

"_Again._"

"_Always again._"

For a moment, he listened, wondering what it meant. But, the voices immediately retreated.

"_Shhhh._"

"_Rest._"

"_Keep sleeping._"

"_Keep dreaming._"

He didn't fight the quiet suggestions. Slowly, he drifted back to his world of dreams as the whispering faded.

"_How long?_"

"_How long can he sleep?_"

"_How long will they search?_"

"_How long must we wait?_"

* * *

><p><strong>Book 1: Analysis<strong>

**Chapter 1 – Sunday Night**

Colonel Roy Mustang watched the night-darkened streets slide past his window, silver under the light of a waxing moon. The city of Central was quiet at this hour; his was one of the few cars on the road. Central Command, on the other hand, never truly slept. The heart of Amestris' military government was a continuous thrum of activity, alive with the business of running the country and a thousand intrigues, both petty and of a far darker nature. All the same, it was rare to be called back this late.

Mustang leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and ran over the last few months in his mind. His own activities had been mind-numbingly boring. Since his transfer from Eastern Headquarters, he had been assigned little beyond an endless stream of paperwork. In the larger scheme of things, there were a handful of cases circulating that might warrant summoning him back at this hour. Expanding the scope further, the short-lived Fuhrer Bader would be stepping down soon. And, his expected replacement, General Lockheed, had already begun his bid for the position. Lockheed, who had been agitating for the dissolution of the State Alchemists program for years.

"And, there," Mustang said aloud as he straightened, "is the explanation."

"Sir?" In the driver's seat of the military-issued car, 1st Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye glanced at the dark shadow of her commanding officer via the rearview mirror.

"Just wondering what General Grand is planning to save the State Alchemist program," he answered. His dark eyes narrowed. "And, why it requires me."

He focused on the clip that kept her long, blonde hair at regulation length as Hawkeye inclined her head slightly, considering the situation. "Maybe he means to use your reputation?" she said at last.

Mustang shrugged carelessly. "There were a lot of alchemists in Ishval."

"There weren't a lot of alchemists who people still refer to as the 'Hero of Ishval'," Hawkeye noted as she turned onto the main thoroughfare toward Central Command.

"Only because people are quick to forget." Mustang crossed his arms. There had been no heroes in Ishval. "No, this is something else. Something more than simple politicking."

Hawkeye didn't question him as she slowed to approach the checkpoint at the entrance to Central Command.

* * *

><p>Some minutes later, Mustang was ushered into General Basque Grand's office. He knew the general only through reputation and a few scattered meetings, none of which had been especially pleasant. Grand was as fierce as his title of Iron Blood Alchemist implied, a mountain of a man who was known for his ruthless efficiency both on and off the battlefield.<p>

As he stepped inside, Mustang let his eyes sweep the room. Its only occupants were Grand, dwarfing his own monstrous desk, and an unfamiliar, smaller man, tiny beside the general's bulk.

"Colonel Mustang," Grand growled by way of greeting. "The Flame Alchemist."

"Sir," Mustang returned, saluting quickly.

Grand motioned him over before using the same hand to gesture to the second man. "This is Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist."

Fullmetal was a slim, bespectacled man with close-cropped gray hair. Between his steel gray hair and lined face, he looked to be a couple of decades older than Mustang's thirty. He wasn't in a uniform, dressed only in a well-worn suit that seemed at least one size too big for him. Just a State-certified alchemist then and not a commissioned officer.

As Mustang stepped forward, Fullmetal turned to give him a quick nod. Then, without waiting for any sort of acknowledgement, he faced Grand again.

Keeping his face carefully neutral, Mustang positioned himself beside the other alchemist. With surprise, he noted that, even in comparison to himself, Fullmetal was short. He could look at the top of the smaller man's gray head out of the corner of his eye.

Grand loomed over both of them.

"As I'm sure you've heard, General Lockheed will, in all likelihood, soon be the new Fuhrer," he said. Beneath his mustache, his lips curled in disgust. "Lockheed has made no secret of his opinion that the State Alchemists have outlived their usefulness."

It was so nice when his hunches were validated quickly, Mustang mused.

He knew of General Martin Lockheed only by reputation. The general hadn't served in Ishval. Instead, as the commanding officer at Western Headquarters, he had spent much of the war fighting Creta on the western border. Taking advantage of Amestris' civil war with Ishval, Creta had staged a sudden grab for several key western production facilities. And, with only minimal assistance from Central, Lockheed and his troops had repelled the invasion. The victory had gained the general instant fame and spurred his rise through the ranks.

Grand's lips drew back further into a true sneer. "Lockheed believes the new weapons his research division has been developing will make "human weapons" obsolete." The burly general put his arms behind his back and began to stalk back and forth. "He doesn't trust alchemists. Thinks machines are more reliable. It's nonsense, but Lockheed is in a position to make his nonsense reality. That in mind, the State Alchemists need to produce something that will surpass all of his machines."

Grand pinned both men with a glare. "All of our careers hinge on this. Lockheed won't hesitate to use the changing public opinion of Ishval to discredit the State Alchemists." Grand's glower focused on Mustang. "He might even take it so far as to suggest trying State Alchemists for war crimes."

Mustang felt his eyes narrow fractionally. So, that was why he had been chosen for this. Because he was not a researcher; he was a soldier. But, as always, Ishval was his double-edged sword. The sword of a war hero that had helped him quickly cut a path through the ranks. And, the sword of the executioner that even now hung at his throat, ready to punish him for his sins.

Punishment he deserved.

But, a punishment he could not accept. Not yet.

Grand broke eye contact and paced to his desk where he planted his huge hands against its polished surface. "I've been looking into the records. Thirty years ago, several alchemists made a series of critical discoveries concerning the creation of a Philosopher's Stone. One in particular was of special interest to us. However, he disappeared, leaving only a series of heavily encrypted notes."

Mustang fought to keep the disbelief off his face. The _Philosopher's Stone_? All that talk about the seriousness of Lockheed's threat and Grand's plan to save the State Alchemist program hinged on alchemy's most infamous wild goose chase?

A muted sound drew his attention to Fullmetal. The other man's face was blank, but there was a tightening in the muscles around his mouth. Surprise? Anger? Maybe Fullmetal shared his opinion of this assignment.  
>Mustang focused his attention back on Grand in time to find the general watching Fullmetal intently. Something like a stillborn smile twitched at the corner of the man's lips.<p>

But, it was gone in an instant as Grand addressed them both once more.

"This line of research was apparently abandoned when no trace of the alchemist could be found and his notes proved indecipherable." Grand glowered. "Unlike my predecessors, I don't give up so easily. Tomorrow, you will be granted access to the notes." He looked between the two alchemists. "I expect results by the end of the week."

"Sir," Mustang debated his words as he spoke, "the Philosopher's Stone is—?"

Now, Grand did smile. "More real than you might believe, Colonel Mustang." He straightened. "Dismissed!"

* * *

><p>Mustang maintained his inscrutable facade until he was safely back in the car with Hawkeye. Then, once they were outside the walls of Central Command, he leaned back into the seat and huffed out a sudden breath of air.<p>

"Well, this is unexpected," he murmured, massaging the area between his eyes.

"Sir?"

He offered his lieutenant a quick, sardonic grin. "General Grand wants me to discover the Philosopher's Stone."

"The Philosopher's Stone?" Hawkeye repeated. "But, that's—"

"A legend alchemists have chased for centuries," Mustang finished. "Yes." He sat up, dark eyes narrowing. "But, Grand isn't the sort of person who chases fairy tales. There's something more to this."

"I believe there's a phone booth up ahead on McConnell," Hawkeye offered.

Mustang smiled. "Excellent." He reached into his overcoat to produce a small notebook. "Let's see." He began thumbing through the pages. "Breda and Falman should be home at this hour."

Hawkeye was silent as she pulled the car over beside the public phone booth. Cutting the engine, she exited the car to take up watch as the Colonel slipped into the booth. But, he paused with his hand on the door handle and turned to look at her.

"I'm sorry to keep you so late," he said.

Hawkeye allowed herself a small smile. "I'm used to it, Sir. I'll call Sergeant Fuery in the morning to ask him to feed Black Hayate on his way in."

Because she knew she wouldn't be returning to her apartment and her over-enthusiastic puppy tonight.

Mustang gave her a quick, sincere smile and then stepped into the phone booth.

Yes, she would be lucky to see her apartment again before this time tomorrow. The Colonel was on a mission. And, she would follow him, as always.


	2. Book 1:  Chapter 2: Monday

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> April 19, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Nothing this chapter.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Many thanks to Kayca for indulging my request for one last proofread and to my second artist on this project, dreamer1789, for the encouragement and an insanely awesome art piece I just saw that... well, will be posted on my LJ eventually ;)

* * *

><p><strong>Book 1: Analysis<strong>

**Chapter 2 - Monday**

The coffee was weak because he hadn't given it time to brew properly, and his efforts to fix it after the fact had only created an unpalatable mess. All the same, Mustang brought the cup to his lips for the third time in as many minutes and sipped it carefully. The sky was just beginning to lighten with the first hint of dawn, and a night's worth of research had yielded few answers.

His rank, silver pocket watch, and a few favors owed had gotten him into the National Central Library's vaults last night. It had required waking a few select staff members and more than a little sweet-talking. Not to mention enduring the dire promises of one especially disgruntled librarian, who swore he would think twice before he found himself in the Colonel's debt again. But, the man had been practically sleepwalking. With any luck, he would forget the whole affair and think he still owed Mustang a favor.

Still, all of the effort seemed wasted. Little of the research on the Philosopher's Stone was sound enough to even merit its filing in the restricted portions of the library. And, of that little, most of it was theory and conjecture.

The only explanation was that there must be more. Classified documents that even a State Alchemist couldn't access. Documents that General Grand would, presumably, be releasing to him today. Documents he wanted information on _now_.

Mustang preferred to be one step ahead. It paid to be one step ahead.

Setting his coffee down, Mustang let his eyes scan the office. 2nd Lieutenant Heymans Breda and Warrant Officer Vato Falman were seated at the long table in front of his desk. The red-headed Breda was leaning back in his chair with a folder held casually in one hand. His lazy slouch belied the keen gaze he was focusing on the folder's contents. In contrast, the gray-haired Falman was the picture of studiousness, bent over a stack of records, running a single finger along the uppermost page as he searched for a particular detail. Hawkeye had left a few minutes earlier to run some errands and, hopefully, head off some assignments he would rather not deal with today.

There was a rattle at the door, and 2nd Lieutenant Jean Havoc stuck his head into the office. He quickly surveyed the room, taking in the papers spread across the desks and the profusion of empty mugs scattered among them. Leaning his lanky frame against the doorjamb, he took a long drag on the ever-present cigarette between his lips.

"One of _those_ days then," he commented.

"Yo, Havoc." Breda waved the folder in his hand at the papers strewn across his desk. "Make yourself useful."

Havoc sauntered over to the table and peered at the mess. "What's all this about?"

"Colonel's got us doing some research on the Fullmetal Alchemist," said Breda.

"Fullmetal?" Havoc pulled out a chair and sat. "Was he in Ishval too?"

Breda snorted. "They were too smart to send _him_ to Ishval."

"So, you've found something then, Breda?" Mustang interjected. His voice was soft, and both men looked to see him watching them with dark, intent eyes.

Breda straightened and looked across the table at Falman. Raising his head, Falman gave him a short nod.

Opening his mouth, Breda paused as the door opened again. This time, it was Lieutenant Hawkeye. She inclined her head toward the three men at the table by way of greeting and then strode to Mustang's desk.

"Lieutenant Colonel Bristol agreed to take over the de Havilland case for the moment, Sir," she informed him.

"Good," he answered. One problem solved. "Breda?"

"We've found quite a bit," Breda began. He held up the folder he had been studying. "Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist. Also, the youngest person to ever become a State Alchemist. He passed the exam at twelve."

"_Twelve?_" Havoc sputtered.

"Twelve," Breda confirmed, "but that was over thirty years ago. Anyway, supposedly, he received his State certification by performing a transmutation without the use of a circle. Though I thought that was impossible." He looked to Mustang, as the only alchemist among them, for confirmation of this.

The Colonel was nodding. "Alchemy requires a circle to focus and control the energy of the reaction," he said. It was a simplification, but now was not the time to give alchemy lessons.

"Well, it looks like Fullmetal's talent was real," said Breda. "Old General Hakuro apparently went to his grave claiming he saw it personally. And, Fuhrer Bradley reportedly corroborated his story."

Mustang steepled his fingers in front of him and rested his chin against them, looking thoughtful.

Breda laid the folder down to flip through it. "However he did it, no one's seen Fullmetal do that little trick again in twenty years. When he was fifteen, he was captured by Drachman soldiers. Ten years later, a team on a raid into Drachman territory found him, wasting away in one of their prisons." Breda made a face. "No pictures, but the medical report's nasty. Broken bones, burns, severe starvation, most of his body was old scars. Except the automail parts, of course. But, they'd long since removed the actual limbs."

"Automail?" Hawkeye questioned.

"Hence the "Fullmetal" title," Breda explained. "He has a full automail right arm, and his left leg is automail from just above the knee."

"Didn't he get his title when he was twelve though?" Havoc asked.

"Yeah, he had the automail at twelve."

Havoc whistled quietly. "What'd a twelve year old kid do to end up with injuries like that? Pick a fight with a bear?"

"It's not in his file. Anyway," Breda resumed his narrative, "by the time they got Fullmetal out of Drachma, he was a wreck. His mind wasn't in any better shape than his body. Says here he suffers from permanent long term memory loss and has concentration problems. He can't perform alchemy without a circle; he's lucky when he can do alchemy at all." He snapped the folder shut. "By all rights, Fullmetal should have been given a medal, an honorable discharge and a retirement package. Beats me why they keep him around. He's been assigned a lot of piddly research projects over the last twenty years, but he's never turned in any significant results."

As Breda finished his report, Mustang was frowning. Fullmetal certainly had a colorful history. But, it was hardly one that qualified him for this latest assignment. From the sound of it, he wasn't qualified for much of anything. As Breda had said, the man should have been retired.

"So, why—?" he murmured aloud. He stopped himself. There was a reason. He just had to find it. "Is there anything else?" he asked. "Falman?"

The older man straightened. "Not much, Colonel," he said gravely. "I did some research on the Fullmetal Alchemist's birthplace. It's a small farming town in the south called Liesenburg. The town's most notable feature is the train station. Given the Fullmetal Alchemist's injuries," he nodded at Breda's file, "I searched for any records of train accidents, but the railroad has never reported any in that area." Falman looked thoughtful. "Of course, aside from the railroads, small communities like that are notorious for their poor record-keeping. It could have been a farming accident."

Mustang waved a hand. "It's probably not important." Stifling a yawn, he looked down at the folder he had been studying earlier.

At his side, Hawkeye, looked from the file to the Colonel and summed up his feelings succinctly.

"All that and there are only more questions than before," she said.

"True." Mustang sat up and ran a hand through his night dark hair. Suddenly, he smiled wolfishly. "I suppose it wouldn't be fun if it wasn't a challenge."

* * *

><p>Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, adjusted his glasses and determinedly bent to copy down the equation he had fought for the last hour to realize. It had been a long and frustrating morning. Like always. It was always hard to get his thoughts on paper, to get his thoughts out period. Out beyond the static. But, persistence had its rewards.<p>

Slowly, he drew out the array he had been working on for the last two days. It was a simple design, but that was the goal. A simple but efficient transmutation circle that anyone with the least amount of training in alchemy could sketch out quickly. Its purpose was cleaning debris from storm drains.

Fullmetal allowed himself a bitter smile. This was all he was good for these days. Creating and copying arrays for the most mundane of tasks and dumbing down the work of more skilled alchemists for use by the masses.

"_If it's something that makes people's lives even a little bit better, then it's something worth doing._"

The whisper of memory floated to the surface, softening his smile into something more genuine.

"Alchemist, be thou for the people," he whispered to himself.

Something fluttered at the back of his mind, but he didn't pursue it.

Instead, he leaned back and studied the array he had drawn. After a moment, he nodded. Everything seemed to be in order. He would test it later. Satisfied, he laid the paper with the new array on top of the small stack in his outbox.

Then, he stood and rotated his right arm. The automail arm swung around silently and smoothly. It was in good condition, but his shoulder ached where the metal port met flesh all the same. Grumbling, he massaged what exposed skin he could.

"Feels like rain."

The gray-haired alchemist stalked to his office's single window and looked out at the sky. Weak sunlight was straining to escape a blanket of slate gray clouds. But, if his aching joints were any indication, it was a losing battle.  
>For several minutes, he watched the sky. It was the only thing worth watching from his window, blessed with a splendid view of the neighboring building's blank concrete as it was. With nothing outside to distract him, he let his mind drift back to the previous night.<p>

Given his… "problems," why had General Grand chosen him for this assignment? Because no matter what the doctors said, he hadn't improved in the twenty years since _it_ happened. He was barely qualified for the work he was already doing.

And, there was something familiar about this Philosopher's Stone business. Something from before. Before the static. If he could just remember…

Pain lanced through his head, and Fullmetal reflexively gripped the windowsill with both hands as the world spun around him.

"_Won't let you._"

"_Can't do it, can't do it._"

With a groan, the alchemist stumbled back to his desk and threw himself into his chair. Letting his head loll back, he waited for the spell to pass. Slowly, the pain receded and the room grew still and silent, the quiet broken only by his harsh breathing.

Fullmetal didn't move for several more minutes. As always, trying to remember the years he had lost was agony. It was why he usually didn't bother.

Memories were overrated anyway.

* * *

><p>It was midday when Colonel Mustang and Fullmetal received their respective summons to meet General Grand at the National Central Library. Upon arrival, they were directed through the massive library's main halls to a side corridor ending in a narrow stairway that descended into the basement level. Stale air tinged with the scent of old books and a less pleasant tang of damp decay greeted them below. As did the general himself with a large binder tucked under one arm.<p>

"You will be working here." General Grand gestured to a nondescript door, one of many lining the basement hallway. The door's sole distinguishing features were the blocky number seven painted on its face and the two uniformed men standing to either side of it. "The research notes are not to leave this room while you work," Grand growled. "Nor are any notes you make." He nodded to the men by the door. "They will collect the notes at the end of each day and search you as you leave to make sure you follow orders."

Mustang grimly squashed the frown threatening to pull his face into a scowl. This would make things difficult. But, he forced himself to look professionally neutral and remain attentive. The former was just good practice. Never give away your true emotions in the face of an opponent. The latter was equally prudent. After all, listening to the rules in all their intricacies was the first step to circumnavigating them.

Beside him, Fullmetal made no secret of his own displeasure. His face was set in a scowl worthy of a petulant child.

But, Grand ignored it and reached out with a large hand to open the door. A gesture from the hand with the binder swept Mustang and Fullmetal inside. There, they found one of the library's large private study rooms reserved for State Alchemists. There was a table in the center of the room with notebooks and paper stacked neatly on top. Bookshelves filled with reference books lined the walls to either side. The back wall was a blank expanse of cinderblocks broken only by an impressive swath of mold trailing up from the floor.

Mustang grimaced inwardly. There was a reason these basement level rooms were used only by the most desperately reclusive alchemists.

"You've been provided all of the usual reference materials as well as everything from the library archives pertaining to the Philosopher's Stone," Grand informed them as they turned to face him again. His bulk successfully barred the doorway. "Lunch will be brought to you. You will arrive here each morning and leave only in the evening or to retrieve additional references."

It was tempting to ask the man if he expected them to ignore the call of nature all day. Or perhaps they were expected to transmute a chamberpot from the concrete floor. It would go well with the room's dungeon atmosphere. But, Mustang ignored his mind's flippant suggestions out of long habit. He had more important things to ask.

"Sir," he began, "this will—"

"Your usual duties are suspended," said Grand, anticipating the question. "Remember the seriousness of this assignment." He glared over his narrow mustache at both men. "I see you've already arranged for Lieutenant Colonel Bristol to take over the de Havilland matter." Grand turned the force of his glower on the other alchemist. "And, Fullmetal's research is never anything that can't wait."

Mustang saw Fullmetal grit his teeth at that, but the older alchemist said nothing. For his own part, Mustang nodded.

"And, it goes without saying, but you are not to discuss this with _anyone_," Grand continued, his fearsome scowl deepening. "Not even your staff." This last was directed at Mustang.

The colonel had expected such an order. It didn't make it any less unpleasant, however.

But, all he said was, "Understood, Sir."

"Good." Grand extended the folder he had been holding. "These are the notes I spoke of. Written thirty years ago by an alchemist named Ulrich Parker, the Reaction Alchemist. They're our best lead on the Philosopher's Stone."

Silently, Mustang cursed him for not offering the man's name last night. Maybe _that_ would have turned up something useful.

But, he accepted the offered folder wordlessly as Grand turned to leave.

"I expect results by the end of the week," the general said. He suddenly looked back and pinned Fullmetal with a stare. "That's an order." Then, he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

For a moment, there was silence.

"Well," Mustang sighed, "I suppose it's time to look at these notes."

His companion was silent. Glancing at the other man, Mustang found Fullmetal clutching at his head with his left hand.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Fullmetal shot him a quick glare punctuated with a wince. "I'm fine," he said.

It was obvious he was not, but Mustang didn't pursue the matter. Fullmetal looked like he was having a migraine, not a heart attack, so it wasn't any of his business. He expected he would have a migraine of his own before this was over.

Giving the other alchemist a moment to collect himself, Mustang turned to the room's single table and moved to lay the folder he had been given down on it. Flipping the folder open, he leafed through the first few pages.  
>It was immediately apparent that this was not the alchemist, Ulrich Parker's, original notes. Instead, it was a printed copy. Likely Parker's "official" findings. All State Alchemists submitted their research annually to be printed and archived in the library, or in the military's archives if it was classified. This was one such copy.<p>

Mustang allowed himself a quiet curse. If Parker had "disappeared" as Grand said, which likely translated into a variety of things ranging from, "gone AWOL," to the less pleasant, "was made to disappear," the chances that this was his completed research were slim.

A second curse sounded at his shoulder, and Mustang was surprised to find Fullmetal leaning past him to study the notes as well. Without so much as a word, Fullmetal took the folder out from under his hands and began to flip through it himself.

"Well, this is just great," he muttered, fanning the pages to skim through the entire document.

Mustang cleared his throat. "I can't say I'm happy with this turn of events either, but perhaps it would be wise if we decide how we're going to begin?"

Fullmetal turned to look at him and, for a minute, Mustang was surprised. The other alchemist's eyes were an unusual cat-like yellow color, but stranger still was that, for all their intensity, they were somehow… empty. It was unnerving. But, after a moment, Fullmetal grunted and put the folder back on the table.

"How _are_ we going to do this?" he asked.

Mustang frowned. It was an awkward situation. He usually conducted his private research alone and delegated case research to his subordinates based on their specialties. And, while he outranked Fullmetal, who held only the default rank equivalent to major given to all State Alchemists, the man had been hand-picked for this assignment. It would be improper to order him around like another subordinate.

Mustang eyed the single folder they had been given. "Alright," he held up a finger, "what if one of us reads and the other writes down anything that might be a keyword?" He glanced at the uppermost page. "It seems to be written in the form of a travelogue, so the names of people and places are probably important."

"Obviously," Fullmetal muttered irritably. But, after a moment's thought, he had to concede that the idea was a good one. "Fine." He moved around Mustang to pull out the nearest chair and sit down at the table, reaching for a sheet of paper. "You read, I write."

Mustang arched a brow. But, he chose not to challenge the other alchemist. Yet. Instead, he nodded and, taking the notes, stepped around the table to pull out his own chair. Inwardly, he made note of Fullmetal's attitude, adding it to the small mental file he was building on the man. A file he added to further as he thumbed through Parker's research a bit while unobtrusively watching the other alchemist hunt for a sharpened pencil.

Now that he could better study him, he was once more struck by Fullmetal's size. The man was not only short; he was _small_. His body was rail thin. But, it wasn't the frail, wasting small of an old or sickly man. Fullmetal was only forty-five in any case, and he seemed to be in good health. No, his scrawny frame more reminded Mustang of a teenager still growing into himself. In fact, if it weren't for his steel gray hair, Fullmetal could have passed for a boy decades younger from the back.

Oh, all the features of a man heading toward middle-age were there. Especially in his face. The lines around his mouth and eyes were well-defined and even deeper than his age merited. His skin had lost the smoothness of youth and was starting to sag.

It was almost as though parts of him had aged normally while others just hadn't gotten the memo that it was time to grow up.

And then, there were the marks of old injuries. His nose was such a mess of angles it had probably been broken repeatedly and allowed to heal as it would. And, there was something off about his jawline that indicated the bones there had probably suffered a similar fate.

A disgruntled snort pulled him from his thoughts.

"Are you going to read that or not?" Fullmetal groused.

"Yes," Mustang answered simply, deliberately taking a few more seconds to arrange the research and himself. Then, he began reading what sounded like nothing so much as the ramblings of one very opinionated travel reporter.

"Having traveled from one end of Amestris to the other – yes, all 763.2 kilometers, east to west –" a glance confirmed that Fullmetal was dutifully writing the distance down, "I can safely say that I've stayed in a good sampling of every type of hotel, hovel and haystack this country has to offer." Hmm, he even appeared to be making note of the alliteration. Good. "I've seen the sites, such as they are. And, I've sampled the food from the south all the way to the Briggs Mountains in the north."

And, on it went for a couple pages worth of introduction. Places, directions, distances. All potential clues couched in what promised to be a scathing review of Amestris' lodgings, innkeepers and tourist attractions. Only the food seemed to get a pass.

Then, they reached the first chapter.

"We'll start in East City, where I began my first journey," Mustang read. "The hotel I stayed at, Madison's, is a decent establishment with clean rooms and reasonably good service. The café next door serves what would be a splendid breakfast if the staff didn't feel the need to lecture customers on their eating habits. Their insistence on presenting this particular traveler with a glass full of cow excrement he explicitly did _not _order did nothing to endear them to me."

There was a snort from Fullmetal. A quick glance confirmed that this was different from his previous irritable noises. No, his lips had clearly turned up ever so slightly in a faint, amused smile. However, when he noticed Mustang watching him, the smile faded.

"What?" he asked. "It was funny."

Mustang arched a brow. "I suppose. It's an… unusual way to refer to… milk, I'm guessing."

"Milk." Fullmetal sounded confident of this. "And, he's right."

"Oh?" A smirk twitched at the corners of Mustang's own lips. "You've had the dubious pleasure of sampling cow excrement for comparison?"

Fullmetal scowled immediately. "No."

"Probably for the best." Mustang turned his gaze back to the notes. "Make a note about milk. There might be something to that."

Or it could be a genuine sentiment included on a whim. Mustang had, in the past, occasionally made a game of attempting to decipher which of an alchemist's notes were purely devoted to the research at hand and which were doubling as personal commentary. It could offer interesting little personal insights into the alchemist's character. This was no game, but more information on Parker might prove useful.

So, Fullmetal dutifully made a note about the milk, though not without shooting Mustang a dirty glance or three, and they continued.

It seemed that East City was the focus of the first "chapter" of Parker's research. How convenient. East City had been Mustang's first post after Ishval. It was familiar territory. Thirty years separated his and Parker's vision of the city, but many details remained unchanged. Oh, whatever café had made the egregious error of serving Parker milk had probably gone out of business decades ago. Likely not for serving milk to irritable patrons though. But, the hotel Parker mentioned was still there, as were the familiar streets and landmarks. It would speed their work along considerably. Because everything Parker reported inaccurately was just as important as everything he recorded truthfully. The discrepancies were potential clues, as were the points at which he chose to swap from fact to fiction.

That in mind, Mustang noted aloud what facts he could personally verify.

"…stopped to rest in a plaza at the end of West Ave. There is a small clock tower there and an impressive view over the city's west side. If you take the stairs down…" Mustang paused. "I'm familiar with the plaza. There's no clock tower in that area."

Fullmetal grunted and bent to add that detail to his notes. Then, he paused.

"Are you sure there's no clock tower?"

Mustang arched a brow. "Clock towers tend to be rather conspicuous, so, yes, I'm sure."

Fullmetal frowned. "There should be a clock tower," he muttered, tapping his pencil against the table in an agitated, irregular rhythm.

"Have you ever visited East City?"

"I—" The pencil's rhythm faltered. "No." Fullmetal grimaced suddenly. "Maybe. A long time ago."

Mustang studied the other man carefully. "As I mentioned, I was posted at Eastern Command for—"

"I know!" Fullmetal cut him off. "I just— There should be a clock tower." He abandoned his pencil in favor of massaging his left temple.

"Well, maybe it's a very small clock tower, and I overlooked it," Mustang allowed, as irritated as he was puzzled by the other alchemist's odd insistence. "Perhaps," the corners of his lips twitched into a smirk, "it's more noticeable to someone of _your_ stature."

For a minute, Fullmetal stared at him blankly. Then, his eyes suddenly blazed to life.

"_What was that?_" he hissed.

Well, well. Apparently, his size was a touchy subject with Fullmetal.

Shrugging, Mustang waved a hand dismissively. "I'm merely noting that, at your height, you're far more likely to notice things that are closer to the ground than someone like me," he said.

"You're not all that far from the ground yourself," the other man shot back.

"However, I am, at least, of average height."

"Average is just another word for boring." With that, Fullmetal reclaimed his pencil and scribbled a quick note with a viciousness that the innocent paper did not deserve. "And, there is… or was a clock tower there. I'm sure of it," he added in a tone that dared Mustang to argue the point further.

Mustang decided to let it go. "Fine, if you insist." It was a simple enough matter to look it up later after all.

There was little talk after that. Mustang read; Fullmetal made notes.

It was as he neared the last couple pages of the first "chapter" that Mustang noticed something amiss. Fullmetal was again rubbing at his head. This time with his free hand, the automail one, as he wrote. Something in the set of the other man's jaw told Mustang that this wasn't just frustration or strained eyes. Well, he had intended to pause after the chapter anyway.

Glancing at Fullmetal periodically, Mustang read the last pages in the same even voice he had maintained throughout. Finishing, he looked up.

"That's the end of the first chapter," he said. "We should stop there and see what we have."

Fullmetal grunted a wordless agreement and pushed the notes he had made toward Mustang. "I put checks by all of the places you recognized – and the clock tower," he said, sliding off his glasses. "Then, dashes by the names and places you said were wrong and stars by everything that might have changed in thirty years."

"Good."

It was a simple and effective enough system. But, only half of Mustang's attention was on the notes. The other half was focused on studying the gray-haired alchemist at the other end of the table.

Fullmetal had laid his glasses to the side and was now rubbing his temples with both hands. His brow was furrowed into lines so deep they must have been familiar haunts for his puckered skin. And, there was a hitch in his breathing that hinted at genuine pain.

Was this a product of the "concentration problems" mentioned in Fullmetal's file? But, the notes in his hand were accurate, complete with some details he himself had missed. They were organized clearly and legibly despite being written in a cramped, awkward style that suggested the writer was not naturally left-handed.

Mustang glanced back at Fullmetal and was surprised to find his odd golden gaze staring back.

"Start fact-checking from the beginning then?" he asked, seemingly recovered.

"Yes, that sounds reasonable," Mustang allowed.

Fullmetal nodded sharply and reached for his glasses. "I'll check the distance across the country. That was first, right? And, the clock tower."

* * *

><p>Hours later, Mustang finally escaped the tiny basement room, Parker's notes, which had only begun to yield the first hints of information; and his peculiar partner. He had been correct that Grand had not made allowances regarding visits to the men's room, so that was his first stop on the way out. If this continued tomorrow, he might seriously consider that chamber pot idea.<p>

As he stalked, blinking, out of the library's main entrance and into the dull light of evening, he became aware of a voice calling him.

"Colonel!"

Mustang turned to see Lieutenant Hawkeye briskly making her way toward him up the library's wide stairway. Her mouth was set in a thin line and her eyes, ostensibly focused on him, were scanning the area in darting glances.

"Lieutenant," he said, one hand slipping into his right pocket. "Has something happened?"

"Just an hour ago, Sir," she began. "Two State Alchemists were found dead outside the presidential prefecture."

"How—?"

"Investigations is still looking into that." Hawkeye fell into step beside him as he descended the stairs. "Based on the surrounding area, they didn't have time to put up much of a fight. Which is probably why no one noticed until it was over. Additionally, neither alchemist had any obvious fatal wounds." Her lips twisted into a frown. "On the outside anyway. They were both bleeding from every orifice, particularly around the face. It's as though…"

Hawkeye paused, collecting her thoughts. "It's as though they were killed from the inside out."

* * *

><p>Yes, I know Ed's hometown of <em>Resembool<em> is in the east, not the south. I'll let you ponder that ;)


	3. Book 1: Chapter 3: Tuesday

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> April 23, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Violence/some messy unpleasantness.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> As always, many thanks to my betas and artists. And, since I forgot to say so sooner, constructive criticism is always welcomed. Up to and including poking at my grammar.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 1: Analysis<strong>

**Chapter 3 - Tuesday**

"_Unh…_"

Darkness surrounded him. Absolute darkness. Were his eyes open? He tried to open them but felt nothing. And, the darkness persisted.

"_Where…?_" He was sure his mouth hadn't moved, but he heard his voice all the same.

"_You're awake?_" a voice asked. It sounded vaguely familiar.

"_Awake?_"

"_Not really then,_" said the voice. "_You should go back to sleep._"

"_Sleep?_"

Other voices joined the first.

"_Sleep._"

"_Still waiting._"

"_Sleep._"

For an instant, he tried to argue. But, the voices were insistent. And, he could think of no compelling reason to stay awake. In fact, a faint niggling at the back of his mind suggested that sleeping had been his idea in the first place.

Fine then.

But, it seemed like there had been something.

Something about a clock and a smug jerk who thought he knew everything.

Letting it go, he let himself drift back into oblivion.

* * *

><p>Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist and sufferer of chronic headaches, did not enjoy mornings. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that he loathed mornings. Mornings meant waking from dreams he could never remember - though the fading impressions at the edges of consciousness assured him that he did, in fact, dream – to face another day of monotony. And, sometimes, mornings meant waking refreshed and well only to suffer the inevitable onset of pain as the familiar headache slowly built until it threatened to split his skull and send him home where he could find relief in sleep.<p>

Of course, those were the bad days. Sometimes, there were good days. Days when he had a breakthrough and made progress in his research. Days when the headaches did not come or were mild.

And then, there was yesterday.

Yesterday had been… different, Fullmetal mused as he squinted against the pale light streaming across his narrow bed. And, not just the bizarre situation of his being entrusted with a real assignment. Yesterday, the headache had been oddly brief. He had felt it building toward the end of the first chapter's worth of notes, but it never fully surfaced. Not like it usually did. And, not until he tried to remember if he had ever visited East City.

Frowning, he pushed himself up and slid his legs over the side of the bed. Dull throbbing near his automail ports announced another damp day, but he ignored it. Reflexively, he lifted his hands, one automail and one flesh, over his shoulders. Then, started when he found his hands grasping at nothing. That again. He lowered his hands to his lap, letting the left, flesh hand idly run through his short hair on the way. His hair must have been longer once. Maybe he had worn it long whenever he visited East City. But, he couldn't remember.

With a groan, Fullmetal looked out the window. The rain he had predicted had yet to materialize, but a thick fog blanketed the city. He scowled at it and stood, crossing his tiny apartment to find the bathroom. As he turned on the shower and stepped out of his boxer shorts, he let his mind wander familiar pathways.

Everything always came back to his missing memories. The first twenty-five years of his life were a blank. He knew_ about_ them. Though it had given him an agonizing headache to do so, he had read his own file. It had offered only flickering images that gave him more questions than answers.

"Mother: Trisha Elric. Deceased."

Long, auburn hair and a gentle, loving smile that made tears prick in his eyes and tore a gaping hole in his soul.

"Father: Unknown."

The broad back of a tall man with golden hair who went out the door and never came back.

No other relatives were listed. And, yet…

A boy with dirty blond hair and brown eyes who smiled at him, scolded him, called for him, screamed, "Brother!" as he reached out with a hand that disappeared under his grasping fingers.

But, there was no brother listed in his file.

Fullmetal shook his head before tipping it back to let the shower's lukewarm water wash over him. In twenty years, he hadn't found any answers. There was no reason to think he would now.

Besides, before he had left the library yesterday, he _had_ found the answer to the issue of the clock tower. And, for once, he had something to look forward to. Because he couldn't wait to prove Colonel Smug wrong.

* * *

><p>Across town, Roy Mustang was feeling considerably less accomplished. Yesterday had ended with a few well-placed calls to keep himself abreast of the murdered alchemists case, a quick dinner and an even quicker shower before bed. But, despite turning in early, he had woken feeling more tired than he started.<p>

The day had not improved from that point.

He had stopped by a café' he frequented long enough to get a quick breakfast and take in the morning gossip. Sadly, while the murdered alchemists were featured prominently in the paper and the early morning chatter, no one had anything to say that he didn't already know. What little else he managed to catch was useless as he didn't particularly care about old Mrs. Grunwald's drunken exploits along St. Louis Avenue. He would, however, take it as a reminder that little old ladies were not to be trifled with. Especially when they were armed.

Breakfast complete, he had made his way to the State Alchemists division and attempted to look up Ulrich Parker. Unsurprisingly, Parker's records were as classified as his research. So, why hadn't a copy of them been included in the file he was given?

With no other alternative, Mustang had found himself in his present situation. Waiting outside General Grand's office and debating his arguments. Because he not only needed to convince Grand to allow him access to Parker's personal records he needed to convince Grand to let him include his staff in this effort. The first request would hopefully be nothing but a formality. The second was likely to take more effort. It was also equally likely to fail. But, Roy Mustang did not intend to fail. He did, however, make contingency plans.

"Colonel Mustang."

Mustang straightened and saluted quickly as Grand opened the door. "Sir."

Grand eyed him shrewdly for a moment. "I don't suppose you've already discovered something?" he asked as he waved Mustang into his office.

"No, Sir," Mustang said as the door was closed behind him. "I wanted to ask you about the Reaction Alchemist's personal file." His eyes tracked Grand as the larger man moved around him to take up position behind his desk. "I thought comparing his official records against the account in his research might be useful."

It was a reasonable request, but Grand had stiffened as he spoke. Then, it was gone, and the general was giving him a level look.

"That can be arranged," Grand said at last. "Was there something else?"

"Yes, Sir." Mustang kept his voice neutral. Grand's unusual reaction to his "easy" request had him on guard. "As you know, the research is encoded in the form of a travelogue. Obviously, the places listed are important, however, the thirty year time gap is making verifying them difficult. That in mind, I would like to ask that I be allowed to assign members of my staff to research the locations in question."

Grand's eyes had narrowed. "I believe I have already made it clear that this matter must be kept in complete secrecy," he growled.

"I understand that, Sir." Mustang carefully ran through his pre-planned arguments. This could still work. "I wouldn't need to give them any specifics, merely places and dates so that they could collect the information. Furthermore, the earliest chapters concern the eastern region, where I was previously stationed. Since coming to Central, General Grumman from Eastern Headquarters has contacted me a few times for various favors. I could easily attribute the assignment to him."

Good. Grand was starting to look more thoughtful than irritable.

"And, once you reach the end of the material concerning the east?" he asked.

"Perhaps, by then, Fullmetal and I will have cracked the code," Mustang answered. Grand was seriously considering it. Maybe the morning was finally looking up. "However," he continued, "if not, allowing my staff to continue assisting would, of course, be at your discretion. For now, I only request their assistance with the first chapters."

Grand studied him carefully for several minutes. At length, he spoke. "Very well, Mustang. But, remember what's on the line here."

"I understand, Sir."

"Good. Dismissed."

Feeling like the day had finally turned around for the better, but maintaining a neutral facade, Mustang turned to go.

"Wait," Grand called behind him.

Mustang half-turned.

"How is Fullmetal working out?" Grand asked. He was watching Mustang with an odd intensity. "I understand that you've read his file."

Hmm, perhaps he should have been more discreet about that. No help for it now.

"Yes, Sir," Mustang said. "I admit that Fullmetal's file was… worrying." He faced Grand fully. "But, we've had no problems. I have no complaints regarding his work. He even noticed some details I had overlooked."

"Did he?" Grand's face was unreadable, but the corners of his mouth seemed to twitch under his moustache. "Well, good. Assigning him was a long shot, but perhaps it will pay off yet." Grand settled into his chair, looking past Mustang in thought. "Yes, perhaps it will." He focused on Mustang again. "I'll have the Reaction Alchemist's file delivered to you by this afternoon. Dismissed."

Saluting, Mustang turned and left. As he made his way toward his own office to give his men their new assignments, he mulled over the conversation. He suspected that he had gotten what he wanted far too easily. And, he was finding that he didn't like it at all.

* * *

><p>"Clock tower."<p>

Mustang took an involuntary step back and away from the book that had been thrust into his face as he entered the room. Recovering, he looked over the thick hardback and into the face of the Fullmetal Alchemist. The other man was scowling at him, but he could see a smirk hiding just behind it.

"Good morning to you too," Mustang said at length as he stepped around the smaller man.

Fullmetal's scowl deepened into a more genuine irritation. "I found the clock tower I was telling you about," he said.

"I'm all ears." Mustang pulled out the same chair he had occupied the day before and seated himself at the table.

Fullmetal followed him, resuming his former place as well. "It was in East City, right at the end of West Avenue," he said, shoving the opened book across the table. "It was there thirty years ago. But, the clock stopped working properly, and they tore it down a few years later."

Mustang gave the brief entry in the book a cursory glance. It was just a footnote in a larger historical account indicating that the clock tower in question had been built to commemorate some battle or another. And, subsequently torn down in the years after Parker wrote his notes. Mustang shoved the book away.

"Well, that answers one question."

Fullmetal glared at him. He had clearly been hoping for more of a reaction. How childish.

"And, it means you aren't the only one who knows something about East City," he said, pressing the point.

"Yes, I think we've established that." Mustang paused and studied his companion. "However, you said yesterday that you weren't sure if you had ever been there."

Fullmetal looked away. "I'm not. I don't… remember things very well."

As his file had indicated.

"On a regular basis or—?"

"_What?_" Fullmetal turned the full force of his scowl on Mustang once more. "I remember everything _now_." Most everything anyway. "It's anything before… about thirty years ago. I was—"

"Held as a prisoner of war in Drachma," Mustang finished. Catching Fullmetal's startled look, he shrugged. "I took the liberty of reading your file."

"You—!"

"It's accessible to any other State Alchemist or equivalently ranked officer."

Fullmetal choked down his words and glared at the dark-haired man for a minute before finally grunting in resignation. "Well, then you know. So, maybe I was in East City back then, but…" He shrugged.

Mustang just nodded and let the topic go. "Now," he reached for the folder containing Parker's notes, "I've spoken with General Grand. Not only has he agreed to release the personal file on Mr. Parker, he's given me permission to have my staff handle the fact-checking for us. Well," he clarified, "at least for the eastern region. I've already gotten them started on East City. That in mind, I thought the best use of our time would be to compile the rest of the information they'll need to look into."

And, with a grudging agreement from the other alchemist, they started on the second "chapter", which was apparently devoted to the city of Liore.

Ulrich Parker's file arrived mid-afternoon, hand-delivered by none other than General Grand himself. His visit was oddly brief. He thrust the folder into Mustang's hand, gave Fullmetal, who was massaging his temples again, an inscrutable glare and left, all with only the bare minimum of conversation.

It was odd enough to set off warning bells in the colonel's mind as he resumed his place at the table. Something had happened, he thought, distractedly pushing aside the research notes and shuffling Parker's file to buy himself some time. Something important enough to distract Grand from his pet project.

It almost prompted Mustang to come up with a sudden need for a particular reference within the next hour so he could escape upstairs and possibly get a message out. Neither the guards or Fullmetal would question it. By mutual unspoken agreement, they had all quickly accepted, "I need more reference materials," as a euphemism for, "I'm visiting the men's room".

Momentarily, Mustang warred with himself. But, he could only use the bathroom excuse so many times, and Grand's distraction might be some other business of the general's. Perhaps even another team of alchemists working on this same project? Or maybe someone had discovered this little endeavor?

Mustang paused and turned the two thoughts over in his mind. Yes, both were possible. More than possible.

"Are you going to actually read that?"

Mustang looked up and across the table to find Fullmetal recovered and pinning him with one of his familiar scowls. Honestly, the man only had two expressions – scowling and pouting.

"Yes," he said, looking down at the file again and frowning briefly. Then, he looked up and let his face slip into a condescending smile. "Do you need me to read it to you, Fullmetal? You know, I notice that I _have_ been doing all the reading. If you need new glasses, you should just say—"

"I can read it myself!" With that, Fullmetal reached across the table to snatch the file from his hand.

Mustang let it go without complaint. "Just please read coherently and not in that snarl of yours," he said.

He received a growl in response, but, after a moment, Fullmetal's voice took up a normal, even pitch as he began to read aloud. Reaching for paper and a pencil to make notes, Mustang ducked his head to hide his smirk. Really, Fullmetal made it too easy.

Keeping his ears trained for the information he needed, Mustang let his mind wander again. He wasn't sure how he felt about this assignment. How he felt about saving the State Alchemists program. But, he _was_ sure that he wanted to know everything he could about the situation.

The next hour passed in relative calm. Fullmetal read in a steady voice that was tolerable if not a little monotone. Mustang busied himself taking notes. Regrettably, there were few interesting things worth noting.

Ulrich Parker, the Reaction Alchemist. His file was as boring as Fullmetal's had been colorful. He had traveled widely, likely explaining his choice to encode his research in the form of a travelogue. But, the file condensed his travels into nothing but so much data, records of places and dates and reports filed. By and large, the places weren't even those listed in the travelogue. It was disappointing, but not surprising.

Aside from that, Parker's field of study had focused on the more esoteric details of alchemic reactions. A study that had led him first to various amplifiers for alchemic energy and, ultimately, to the Philosopher's Stone. Parker's official, unencrypted reports were fairly dense and, while he understood the bulk of it, Mustang admitted to himself that he would need to brush up on his own knowledge before he could say with complete confidence that he fully grasped every word of it. Whether Fullmetal understood it or not was debatable, but it had him scowling deeper than ever and rubbing at his head again.

Still, even at a glance, it was obvious that none of Parker's efforts had been close to a Philosopher's Stone. At least, none of his un-encoded efforts. All the same, the two alchemists soldiered on, slowly tackling each individual report, searching for anything that might indicate a change, a breakthrough, however small.

Halfway through the stack of reports, Fullmetal abruptly closed the file and tossed it down on the table.

"This is pointless," he growled as he removed his glasses to rub at his eyes.

"_What are you doing?"_

_ "Can't, can't!"_

_ "Can't let you!" _

_"Can'tcan'tcan'tcan't!_"

"Not necessarily." Mustang's voice cut across the buzz of far too many voices as he reached to retrieve the file. "But, it is more than enough for one day," he said, looking over the other alchemist with a critical eye.

He hadn't really looked at the older man for the last half hour. Now that he did… Fullmetal looked even worse than he had when they paused the previous day. His face was pale and contorted in a grimace. His hands were no longer rubbing but clutching at his head. The left, flesh hand had a faint tremor.

Mustang looked away and busied himself scanning over the notes he had made. Maybe Fullmetal would recover like he had before. If so, he would offer what privacy he could.

However, as the minutes ticked by, it became obvious that Fullmetal wasn't going to bounce back this time. If anything, his tremors were becoming more pronounced.

"Hey, Fullmetal." Mustang waited for the other man to look at him. "You don't look good. Maybe you should go home." He dug in a pocket to produce his State-issued watch and check the time. "It's a quarter to five anyway."

For a minute, it looked like Fullmetal would argue with him. His jaw was set in a stubborn glower and his eyes narrowed. But, then he jerked and winced so hard Mustang could hear his teeth snap together.

"Yeah," Fullmetal said, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Yeah, that would be good." Reaching for his glasses, he forced himself to stand on shaking legs and make his way to the door.

The guards, taking in his ashen face, gave the gray-haired alchemist only a cursory inspection and let him go, obviously afraid they would catch whatever he had. It brought a bitter smile to Fullmetal's lips as he made his way to the stairs. There was nothing contagious about his condition.

Never contagious. But, always predictable.

Parker's reports had been absolutely fascinating. If Parker's calculations for minimizing the amount of energy wasted in a transmutation were correct, the potential in applying them to his own work…

And, there the voices had intervened, as they always did.

But, now…

"_Going now." _

_"Going." _

_"Going good." _

_"Be quiet now."_

_ "Quiet. Quiet._"

And, indeed, the farther he got from the basement room, the quieter it got.

* * *

><p>Mustang stared at the closed door for several minutes after Fullmetal left, his lips pressed into a thin frown. There was something wrong there. True, it wasn't uncommon for men to suffer the effects of war and torture for the rest of their lives. But, for Fullmetal, thirty years later, to end <em>every<em> day with a debilitating headache or worse… Either the man's condition was worse than it appeared on the surface – again, prompting the question of why he hadn't been discharged – or something about this assignment was triggering it.

His bet was on the latter.

His gaze shifted to Parker's file. There was a connection. There had to be.

"_I remember everything _now_. It's anything before… about thirty years ago._"

Fullmetal's words earlier that afternoon came back to him in a rush.

Thirty years ago.

Thirty years ago, Ulrich Parker had researched the Philosopher's Stone. Thirty years ago, Fullmetal had been an impossibly young alchemic genius.

Mustang swore softly as he brought his fist down on the file.

It was suddenly starting to make a terrible lot of sense _exactly_ why Fullmetal had been assigned to this project.

* * *

><p>Clutching at the stairway railing for balance, Fullmetal made his way up to the library's main floor. His head was growing quieter by the minute, but the pain lingered. He wanted nothing so much as to get back to his apartment and collapse. That in mind, he pushed open the stairwell door, squinting against the brighter light beyond. It hurt, stabbing into eyes that had adapted to the basement's dim lighting and making his head throb all the harder. Blindly, Fullmetal turned and made his way toward the nearest exit.<p>

As he navigated around the stacks, one hand out to steady himself against the shelves, Fullmetal became distantly aware of a familiar voice. One that _wasn't_ inside his head. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of General Grand's large form amid a cluster of soldiers standing near the front entrance.

Fresh pain lanced through his head. He was failing again. After more than a decade of useless assignments, he had finally been given something important, and he was failing.

"_They have not all been useless assignments._"

Yes, they were. Pointless busywork given to a useless alchemist.

No, not all… There had once been an assignment on using alchemy to fit and repair automail.

But, it was so little.

He wanted to do something worthwhile. He _needed_ to do something worthwhile. He wanted to be useful again. If he could just make some kind of breakthrough on the notes and prove to the general that he wasn't useless.

They had let him keep his job all this time. Didn't he owe—?

Pain, swift and piercing, shot through his skull.

"_Nononononononononononononono!"_

_ "Don't!" _

_ "Can't!_"

The words ran together, growing louder and louder until the voices dissolved into an incoherent scream dragged from a thousand throats. It was a senseless cacophony that felt like knives driven through his skull.

Fullmetal barely bit back his own scream as he slumped to the floor. His hands dug into his scalp, frantically gripping his head as though it might explode if he didn't hold it together.

"_I'm going!_" he cried into his mind, squeezing his eyes shut. "_I'm leaving! I won't do anything! You win!_" Tears streamed down his face, trickling into his lips and over clenched teeth. "_You win! You _win_!_"

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, curled into himself, crying from the pain and his own inability to fight it. But, finally, the voices quieted, and he became aware of the world beyond the pain and the voices.

Somewhere a clock was chiming. Six? Was it six o'clock now?

He opened his eyes. The library would be closing then. Rolling his head back, he looked up. Spying a shelf at a good height, he raised his automail arm to grip the edge of it and pull himself up. His flesh leg quivered under his weight, and he slumped against the bookshelf. There was a dull buzz echoing in his mind as though his mental ear was ringing after the assault. His body, what wasn't automail at any rate, was trembling. His breathing was ragged, and his vision was ringed by spots. But, he could not stay here.

Looking toward the door, he found that General Grand was gone.

Good. He didn't want the general to see him like this.

Slowly, Fullmetal began to edge his way toward the door, the automail hand always holding tightly to the nearest shelf. His progress was slow, but, mercifully, all of the other patrons had already left or were holed up in private study rooms, unwilling to leave until the staff forcibly ejected them. Likewise, the librarians were absent, perhaps searching for those few, stubborn patrons. It was a gift he didn't question.

Soon, he emerged, wincing, into the gray light of a rain-washed evening. But, he ignored the steady drizzle and instead focused on navigating the stairs, taking each one carefully. As he neared the bottom, he heard voices behind him. He thought he even heard the general again.

Gritting his teeth, he increased his pace.

He didn't want anyone to find him. To see him shaking and tearstained. He was disgrace enough without that.

At last, he reached the bottom and, staggering off the final step, Fullmetal teetered around the corner of the library. A few stumbling steps and he had slipped into a narrow alley. It was roughly angling in the direction of his apartment. Maybe. He didn't care. At least it was away from the library. Away from the general. Away from his obligations. Away from his failures.

Away from the voices, who were now only whispers.

But, the static remained, like a clinging fog in his mind.

Lost in the haze, he nearly slipped when his feet slapped into an especially deep puddle. Throwing out a hand to catch against the nearest wall, he steadied himself. Then, he looked down.

Red.

Why was there red wending through the puddle at his feet?

His eyes tracked the gentle trickle of red backward. Back to where it became thick and heavy. Back to a pair of shoes. Back to a limp hand. Back to a face that was nothing but red. So much red.

Fullmetal took an involuntary step away. Something hot and burning welled up in the back of his throat. Choking it down, he tore his eyes away from the body. Looked up.

And, into a pair of unfamiliar eyes. Eyes as red as the crimson stain at his feet.

* * *

><p>Roy Mustang gave the list he had written a final perusal. It seemed to be in order. He had skimmed through Parker's travelogue and made a list of every town Parker had listed in the east as well as what few landmarks he thought the general would permit. It would be enough for Breda and Falman to work from.<p>

His mind was only half on the list. He had spent most of his time since Fullmetal left debating Grand's reasons for not telling him that Fullmetal had known Parker. Or worked with Parker. As a fellow researcher? An apprentice? There were so many possibilities. Did Fullmetal himself know? Or rather, had he been told? It was clear he didn't remember, but he had been in Grand's office when Roy arrived the night they were given the assignment. The general might have already briefed him on his connection to Parker.

Or Fullmetal might be completely unaware. Parker was, most likely, a deserter after all. If Fullmetal's memory returned, he might choose to work against their efforts out of some loyalty to the man.

Mustang balanced a pencil between his fingertips, thinking. Grand's sudden question that morning about how Fullmetal was doing now made sense. Grand was counting on Fullmetal to be the key to deciphering the notes.

"So, what's my role? A backup? An unwitting spy?"

Mustang's dark eyes narrowed. It looked like he was going to have some additional research to do. Privately. Because this wasn't a question he could ask Grand. If he was meant to know, he would have been told. So then, why wasn't he meant to know?

Loud voices in the hallway drew him from his musings. Before he could stand, the door was thrown open, and General Grand himself strode into the room.

"Colonel Mustang, where is Fullmetal?"

Mustang froze half out of his chair. "He left over an hour ago. He wasn't feeling well. Didn't the guards—?"

"Yes!" Grand snapped impatiently. "But, did he tell you where he was going?"

Mustang straightened slowly. "No. I assumed he was going home to rest given his condition."

"He's not at his apartment." Grand whirled and stalked back to the door. "And, the Earth Alchemist, who was supposed to meet me two hours ago, is also missing."

* * *

><p>Fullmetal stared numbly at the red-eyed man, taking in details without really processing them. Tall, well-built with a large x-shaped scar centered between those unnerving eyes. Dimly, he felt a sense of alarm building in the back of his mind. This was bad. There was a dead man at his feet. He should run, fight, something.<p>

But, his limbs were still only half-responsive. And, the world was gray and distant, narrowed down to himself, the man and the body between them.

The red-eyed man watched him for several long seconds. Then, he slowly bent forward.

His body suddenly moving of its own accord, Fullmetal immediately raised his hands and took a step back.

But, the man was only retrieving a pair of dark sunglasses from the ground. Slipping them onto his face, he regarded Fullmetal once more. Then, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the deepening twilight.

Slowly, the world began to fade back into focus. The rain had become a steady patter against the pavement overlaid by a strange, harsh wheezing. For a minute, Fullmetal thought it might be coming from the body. But, no, even in the dim light it was obvious the body was too still. After a minute, Fullmetal realized that it was his own breathing.

Calm down. He had to calm down. He had to report this. He had to…

Ducking his head to catch his breath, his eyes landed on his hands. They were still held in front of him, palms nearly touching.

"What was I trying to—?"

Inside his mind, a soft murmur of voices whispered, "_Won't let you die._"


	4. Book 1:  Chapter 4: Wednesday

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> April 27, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Nothing this chapter.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> As always, many thanks to my betas and artists. Especially Sage SK, who got this thing in tiny little pieces and endured lots of early morning brainstorming sessions. Also, just like always, constructive criticism is welcomed. Up to and including poking at my grammar.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 1: Analysis<strong>

**Chapter 4 - Wednesday**

Darkness again. But, there had been light not too long ago. After _they_ came to him, telling him he had to _wake up, wake up, wake up quickly_. And then, there had been light and sound – real sound, not just whispers - and for a second it had seemed that only a thin curtain separated him from the world beyond.

A world that was cloudy and indistinct and pulsing with danger. Sensing the threat was in front of him, he had prepared himself to fight. He had only needed something simple. Just a shield. Because even if he couldn't see properly, there had to be ground at his feet, and he could use that to—

Then, the world was gone as quickly as it had come. And, _they_ were telling him that it was safe now even as they urged him to go back to sleep.

"_I wish you would make up your minds,_" he groused.

He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to be back out in the light. Even if it was dangerous. At least it was something beyond this oblivion.

"_Perhaps it will be time soon._"

Ah, _that_ voice again. The one that sounded familiar. The only one that seemed capable of communicating in real sentences instead of senseless babble.

"_Soon?_" he asked.

" _Maybe._"

It was a completely unsatisfactory answer, but the others were chiming in now.

" _Soonsoonsoon._"

"_Sleep now._"

"_Sleep._"

"_Soon. Promised._"

_"Sleep._"

Weary of trying to follow the stream of nonsense, he gave in to their demands and let himself sleep.

* * *

><p>"Roy!"<p>

For an instant, Roy Mustang almost considered running. But, it wasn't polite to run from your best friend. Nor was it wise when you needed to prise him for information. Besides, running had never worked before.

So, resigned, Mustang handed the papers he was carrying to Hawkeye and turned to meet his fate.

Today, fate was looking a lot like a little girl in pigtails holding a teddy bear larger than she was. Huh, and there were five more nearly identical photographs behind that one. He wondered if they could be run together into a film.

"Isn't my Elicia the cutest little girl ever?" his best friend, Maes Hughes, lieutenant colonel, investigator, amateur photographer and doting father, cooed, holding the photos in his face.

"This is a rhetorical question, isn't it?"

"Of course!" Hughes proclaimed, gesturing grandly with his free hand. "You have no grounds to say there's a cuter little girl anywhere until you have one of your own." Hughes' face with its perpetual five o'clock shadow was suddenly disturbingly close to his own. "Say, have you found a wife yet?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

"What? No!" Mustang threw himself back, stumbling several feet away from the taller man. He noted with some relief that Hawkeye had already excused herself.

Hughes sighed dramatically. "What a shame. But, to cheer you up in the meantime," he reached into a back pocket, "I have lots of photos of Elicia!" Grinning, he produced a stack of photos. Then, he was at Mustang's side, throwing an arm over his shoulders. "Let's go to the mess hall and get some breakfast while I show you her fourth birthday party."

Mustang opened his mouth to protest.

Hughes cut him off with a wagging finger. "Now, now. Since you can't ever be bothered to come, you can at least let me catch you up on _everything_." His voice dropped briefly, and Mustang saw his eyes flash behind his glasses.

Growling a variety of false protests, Mustang let himself be steered toward the cafeteria.

* * *

><p>Edward Elric looked down at the slowly cooling mug of coffee in his hands. The cold steel of his automail was inexorably leeching away the remaining heat. But, he made no effort to move it. Morning had found him in a military hospital, listless and drained.<p>

A man had died, and he had stood there in front of the killer unable to do anything. And now, he was confined to a hospital room, unable to do what little work for which he was fit.

But, it was the general's orders. Grand had arrived as he was giving his statement to the military police last night. One look at him, and the general had ordered him to the hospital.

It was pointless, but he obeyed without comment. Even with the voices mercifully silent after their last cryptic message, he had still been reeling from the earlier attack. _He_ knew that only sleep would do him any good. But, it was rather difficult to convince anyone else that he didn't need to visit the hospital when he was swaying on his feet and unable to make eye contact due to an acute inability to determine exactly where anyone's eyes _were_.

Of course, that was their own fault for being so tall.

Fullmetal frowned. Where had _that_ come from?

He shook his head and sipped at his now lukewarm coffee before setting it back on the tray across his lap. At least he had been able to sleep. The hospital bed wasn't particularly more or less comfortable than his own. And, despite the appalling stench wafting along the halls, breakfast had been tolerable.

But, it was all a waste. The hospital could do nothing but offer him a quiet place to sleep. They could not silence the voices. They could not make him useful again.

They had tried, in years past. He had dutifully reported his condition back then. Back when he first became aware. Back in the earliest days he could remember when he had first truly woken, blinking and confused, to startle a nurse when he hoarsely asked for water.

Doctors and military officers had come then, explaining that he had been unresponsive for a year and questioning what he could remember. The answer was very little. He had known nothing of himself beyond his name, title and registration code. But, the questioning had continued for days.

At last, they had let it go and left him alone to recuperate. The voices had not made themselves known until later. Later, when they asked, as a test of his mental recovery, for him to perform alchemy. He had been presented with a simple task – repairing a broken plate. He had raised his hands immediately, instinctively as the proper equation promptly came to him.

And then, the voices had struck with a wordless attack of such strength it had driven him, screaming, to the floor. It had lasted for days. Days of screaming and pleading for release until his throat was torn and his voice was nothing but a bloody whisper. Days of an agony so intense the doctors dosed him with morphine beyond all recommended limits and finally, finally he had fallen into an oblivion where the voices could not find him.

It had been the worst attack, but not the last. In the months to follow, the attacks came every time he attempted alchemy and every time he tried to remember his past.

It was only during one of the later, lesser attacks that he became aware of the voices. Became aware that it wasn't just an explosion of pain in his head; it was _voices_. Hundreds, thousands when they all chose to join the effort. Those were the worst "attacks". As one, they were an unintelligible roar. In smaller numbers, he could discern individual voices, words, sentences. All chanting that he _could not_, that they _would not let him_.

So, he had told the doctors. But, there was nothing the doctors could do.

Oh, there were drugs, and he had spent months that were as lost to him as his past while they drugged him senseless. The voices were quiet when he was on the medication. But, he was as useless drugged as he was writhing in agony. And, the drugs could not take the voices away.

He had eventually been left to recover on his own as best he could. And, he had. He _had_. He could function. He could do his job, such as it was. He learned what kept the voices at bay. He learned what made them attack.

His past and his alchemy were inextricably linked, and grasping for either prompted the voices. But, he could fight them. And, he did. For years, he fought and won little battles here and there. He found a balance. It was hard-won and even harder to keep, but he did it.

Only now… Now, this new assignment was forcing him to upset that balance, to cross lines he had long ago surrendered. And, he didn't even understand how or why it connected to him.

All he knew was that he _needed_ to win this battle. He needed to be useful again.

* * *

><p>"And, this is Elicia unwrapping her new pink party dress!"<p>

Mustang very nearly stabbed the photograph as it was thrust between his fork and the eggs he had been planning to eat.

"Hughes," he began slowly, "the next photograph to come between me and my breakfast will be set on fire." It was his second breakfast, truth be told, but Hughes didn't need to know that.

"Oh, don't be like that, Roy!" Hughes whined, pulling the picture to safety. "We haven't gotten to the birthday cake yet!"

Forget the photographs; he was going to burn _Hughes_.

Seeing the murder in his eyes, Hughes gave the room around them a surreptitious glance. They were alone at the end of one of the long mess hall tables. In fact, as soon as they had entered, space had magically opened up around them as anyone familiar with the over-enthusiastic lieutenant colonel had abruptly found somewhere else to be.

Noting that, Hughes' hazel eyes sharpened into something more serious as he addressed Mustang again. "Judging by Elric's statement, our murderer is Ishvalan," he said quietly.

Mustang started and nearly choked on his eggs. Ishval. His face clouded as he forced himself to calm down and chew slowly and deliberately. Ishval, it seemed, was determined to haunt him.

"Ishvalan?" he asked. "You're sure?"

"Red eyes, dark skin." Hughes gestured to his face. "And, a large, x-shaped scar centered between his eyes."

Mustang's frown deepened, and he jabbed at a sausage on his plate. "Definitely Ishvalan then." He released a humorless snort. "And, his targets make sense. All State Alchemists."

Hughes nodded. "Elric's lucky he doesn't wear a uniform."

"And, that the killer doesn't care if he's seen," said Mustang.

Hughes waved a hand. "If he's Ishvalan… You know their situation. Even now, most of them live in hiding in slums and refugee camps." Hughes reached to adjust his glasses. "He already has to hide his features. Having an eye witness doesn't change his situation."

"All the same, most murderers wouldn't leave an eye witness."

"Too true," said Hughes. "But, for now, I'm just as glad he's not interested in branching out in his targets." He leaned forward. "Given he's killed three State Alchemists, two with combat experience, I know you're aware of how dangerous this guy is, but…" His voice dropped. "The coroner sent his initial findings over this morning."

Hughes fished in his pocket again and produced another stack of photographs that he pushed toward Mustang. They were accepted wordlessly and slipped into an inside pocket.

Hughes continued. "I'm no expert, but if this isn't some kind of alchemy, I'll change departments."

"_Alchemy?_" Mustang barely kept the word at an appropriate volume. He leaned forward until he was nearly nose to nose with the investigator. "But, you think he's Ishvalan!" he hissed.

And, it was a well-known fact that the people of Ishval _did not_ practice alchemy. A deeply religious people, most of them viewed alchemy as heretical, a sin against God. And, that was before the State Alchemists had been called in to end the civil war with Ishval. Before alchemy was used to reduce their entire province to a blistered crater.

But, Hughes was smiling thinly. "Interesting, isn't it?" he said, leaning back.

Mustang swore and drew back. "Interesting isn't the word I'd choose," he said loudly. "I swear, Hughes, any more photos, and I'll—"

Hughes took the cue smoothly and held up his hands. "You'll carry that threat out, I get it." He pushed his chair back. "Keep them anyway. After all, how can my precious Elicia's face not brighten anyone's day?"

Mustang scowled, then asked quietly, "That new case of yours – what are you calling this State Alchemist killer?"

Hughes stood, grinning. "Using the Investigative Department's famous wit and intelligence, we've decided to call him Scar."

"Clever."

"I thought so." Then, with a jaunty wave, Hughes was gone.

* * *

><p>It was noon before Grand and the doctors agreed to release Fullmetal from the hospital. To the alchemist's surprise, the general came in person to collect him. He was still trying to fathom <em>why<em> as he was escorted out to Grand's private car. For that matter, he was trying to fathom why, after half a day spent wasted in the hospital, _now_ the general seemed to be in a hurry. His – not short, just normal as compared to a _giant_ – legs were having to work twice as hard to keep up with Grand's long strides as the larger alchemist propelled him through the hallways, across the lobby and out the main doors to where a military issued car was waiting in the drive.

Grand had just opened the rear door and given Fullmetal a shove toward the open compartment when a voice cut across his gruff, "Get in."

"A moment please, General."

Fullmetal felt Grand stiffen all the way to the palm of his meaty hand. Then, the hand grasped the back of the diminutive alchemist's jacket and all but threw him into the car.

"Major Archer," Grand growled, turning to face a pale man with a narrow face. "What is it you need?"

"Merely wondering when you had become involved in the murder case," Archer replied, smiling thinly. "I understand there was a witness?" Keen eyes swept across and around Grand to settle on the alchemist just pulling himself out of the car's floorboard. As though sensing the stare, Fullmetal glanced up, golden eyes still clouded by pain. "And, this is?"

Grand interposed his not inconsiderable bulk between Archer and the dazed alchemist. "A soldier currently under my command," he said. "He was the witness. He has already given his statement to myself and your superior in the Investigations Department."

Archer took a half-step back. "How considerate of you to be here for your subordinate." His smile was a thin, vicious line. "No uniform?"

"He's just been released from the hospital. And, a serial killer targeting State Alchemists is a serious matter."

"Very." Archer inclined his head. "I understand you were planning to meet with the Earth Alchemist prior to learning of his unexpected demise?"

"Yes, as I already told Lieutenant Colonel Hughes." Grand began to bend over to enter the car. "I don't have time for questions I've already answered, Major."

"Yes, of course. My apologies." Archer turned as though to leave. "Oh, General, it might interest you to know that Fuhrer Bader will be making an announcement before the assembly Friday evening." He glanced over his shoulder. "Things may be changing soon. I do hope you haven't made any... unwise decisions." His lips twitched. "I would hate to find myself investigating such a decorated general for anything seditious." His tone was at odds with his words. "Well, good day."

But, the car door had already slammed shut and Grand was barking directions at the driver. Archer merely smiled.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Grand swung around to level the full force of his fury on Fullmetal.

"You will forget everything that was just said," he snarled. "That's an order."

Fullmetal drew back. The backseat suddenly seemed far too cramped.

"Y-yes, Sir."

"An _order_, Fullmetal."

The gray-haired alchemist stiffened. "Yes, Sir."

Grand watched him for a long moment. Then, he grunted and leaned back. "So, the reports are accurate then," he rumbled.

"Sir?" Fullmetal looked at him in confusion.

Grand ignored the question. "It's unfortunate about the Earth Alchemist," he said as he leaned back. "But, now that you've provided a description of the killer, this business should be settled soon. Good work, Fullmetal." There was a curious strain in his voice.

Fullmetal started at the praise and quickly looked away out the window at his side. "Sir?" He searched for words. "I just… I just happened to be there," he finished at last. He glanced at Grand and wondered why the general's fists, resting on his knees, were clenched so tightly that his knuckles cracked ominously.

"All the same, your information should get Investigations moving," said Grand. Catching Fullmetal's eyes on his hands, he crossed his arms. "Killing three State Alchemists in two days… And, an Ishvalan too…" Grand's eyes narrowed. Then, he glanced down at the gray-haired man beside him. "In the meantime, I'll have escorts assigned to you."

"Escorts?" It took a moment for Fullmetal to fully process the statement, but, once he did, something desperate surged in his chest. "Sir! I don't need—!"

He was a State Alchemist, and the general meant to give him bodyguards. Because he couldn't— His shoulders slumped. Because he couldn't defend himself. It was an effort for him just to test his own simple housekeeping arrays. Combat alchemy was far beyond his limited abilities.

He looked up to see Grand studying him with a thoughtful expression.

"Unless you've had a recent breakthrough in your condition, Fullmetal, you need escorts," the general said. He fixed the alchemist with the same intent, searching look he had used when he first entered the car.

"No, Sir." Fullmetal slumped back. "It… my 'condition' is the same as always." The words were acid on his tongue. He was useless. And, he sounded pathetic.

"Well, it can't be helped." Grand looked away from him. "I'll assign a couple of men to escort you from now on. For now, I'll take you to the National Library, and you can resume your work." The general turned his gaze back to Fullmetal for a moment. "It's already Wednesday," he noted. "I expect to see some results by Friday."

"Yes, Sir."

In his lap, Fullmetal's mismatched hands clenched.

* * *

><p>With Fullmetal still in the hospital for observation, Colonel Mustang had made good use of his time since breakfast with Hughes. After some consideration, he had decided to set aside the false travelogue for the moment. Instead, he had turned to skimming over the last of Parker's official reports. They were, as he and Fullmetal had assumed, largely unhelpful. For the sake of completion, Mustang soldiered on.<p>

In the next to last report, an odd, cryptic comment immediately flagged his attention. It was a footnote in a document concerning alchemic amplifiers.

"I have not yet had the opportunity, but am most interested in speaking with Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist, concerning the amplifier he noted in the Cornello case," Mustang read to himself as a thin smile graced his lips.

Finally, a connection between Parker and Fullmetal, however tenuous. The report had been filed in May 1884. Leaning back, he ran through the necessary math in his head. May 1884 would have been just months before Fullmetal was reported missing. Frowning, Mustang reached for Parker's personal file. He flipped a few pages to the pertinent information and sucked in a breath. He had remembered correctly. By the end of the same year, Parker too had been gone.

It might not mean anything. Or it might mean everything.

As he considered the possibilities, the door to the musty study room was flung open with such force it sent Mustang leaping from his chair and into a defensive crouch. Long habit had one hand already on his sidearm as he looked up to identify the slim figure in the doorway.

Fullmetal arched a brow at him. "What are you doing?"

Behind him, one of the guards was yelping, "Sir! Please be more careful!"

"What am _I_ doing?" Mustang stood. "What are _you_ doing barging in here like that?" he demanded.

"I've been cooped up all day with a bunch of useless doctors," Fullmetal answered, shutting the door with considerably less force. "I'm ready to get to work." That said, he strode to the table and snatched up Parker's notes.

Turning, Mustang stared at him for a full minute before he found words. "To what do I owe this sudden enthusiasm?" he asked, keeping his tone faintly irritable.

He knew the answer. Yesterday. Most likely Fullmetal's encounter with the newly christened "Scar". But, he was hoping the older man would give him a hint as to _why_.

He was not disappointed.

Fullmetal looked up and those strange yellow eyes fixed on his dark ones. "Because I'm tired of being useless."

The statement was as honest as it was blunt. And, with what he knew of Fullmetal's past, there was little doubt as to the meaning behind it. But, as he replied, "Fair enough," and reclaimed his chair, Mustang found himself wondering exactly what it was that Fullmetal wanted to be useful for. And, who.

His eyes fell on the reports he had been reading. For just a moment, he contemplated asking Fullmetal about this Cornello case. But, then he remembered how the man tended to suffer debilitating attacks when confronted with his past. And, Fullmetal seemed so focused and determined he found he didn't have the heart to risk sending the man into another crippling fit. Decision made, Mustang carefully closed the report binder and slid it to the side.

"I had been reading through the remainder of Parker's reports," he said. "As we suspected, they're not much help." He ignored a snort from Fullmetal. "So, shall we continue with the research journal?"

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, Fullmetal's newfound enthusiasm had kept them in the library well after closing time, locked in a pointless argument over the importance of Parker's habit of using alliteration in threes while the guards and two soldiers Grand had sent to escort Fullmetal tried vainly to drag them out of the building. By the time they finally agreed to a ceasefire, the library had been locked and the records department was similarly closed for the day. So, Mustang mused as he descended the steps from the library, looking up the Cornello case in Fullmetal's file would have to wait.<p>

But, the military's files weren't the only resources at his disposal.

In fact, he knew just the man with whom to speak.

Twenty minutes later, Mustang was threading his way through the barely ordered chaos of the Central Tribune office. He had shed the more obvious trappings of his uniform, changing his pants and shrugging out of his jacket. Wrapped in his long overcoat, no one gave him a second glance. Thus undisturbed, he made his way through the bustle and roar of printing presses to a corner where a white-haired man was bent over the small keyboard of a linotype machine. An orange tabby cat that sat crouched on a cluttered table to the side looked up as he approached and meowed.

"Hmm?" The old man straightened and twisted in his seat. His eyes, a light blue framed by narrow spectacles, landed on Mustang, and he smiled. "Well, it's been a while since I've seen _you_. Chris' boy, right?"

Mustang inclined his head, smiling back as he moved to stand beside the cat's table. "I was stationed out in East City after the war," he said as the tabby jumped down to twine itself around his legs. "I've only recently been transferred to Central."

"I heard." The old man's smile was knowing. "Not much you don't hear around here if you keep your ears open." He swiveled his chair around to properly face Mustang. "I suppose that's why you're here now?"

Mustang allowed himself a small chuckle. "I'm afraid so. Tell me, Mr. Snow, do you know anything about the Fullmetal Alchemist?"

"Fullmetal? Ah!" Snow reached to scoop the cat into his lap as it finished its fifth circuit around Mustang's legs and trotted his way. "I remember that boy." Snow's face took on a look of fond reminiscence. "He was quite famous back, oh, thirty years ago. Always up to something or other – exposing corrupt officials, taking on outlaws and terrorists, raising havoc everywhere he went. He made a lot of headlines, that boy. They called him "the People's Alchemist" because he was always willing to help out anyone in need."

The more he learned about Fullmetal the more the man's past began to sound like a particularly outlandish dime novel, Mustang mused.

"Do you happen to remember anything involving Fullmetal and a man named Cornello?" he asked. If anyone would remember, it would be Lucius Snow. The man had worked as a typesetter at the Central Tribune for fifty years, and his memory of headlines, from front page covers to minor interest stories, was uncanny.

"Cornello…" Snow ran his right hand down the cat's back in slow strokes as he squinted up at the ceiling as though trying to picture the headline in his mind. And, perhaps he was. "Ah!" Snow's hand came to a stop, prompting the cat to vacate his lap and return to its original perch. "If I remember it right, Cornello claimed to be a priest. Started some new religion out east, claiming he could perform miracles. The Fullmetal Alchemist exposed him for the fraud he was."

Snow shook his head then. "It wasn't one of the boy's wilder adventures really, but I remember it because it was one of his last. Not too long after that, he just up and disappeared. I don't remember him appearing in the news ever again." The old man turned curious eyes on Mustang. "Did he die?"

"No." Mustang considered his words for a moment. "Not entirely anyway."

* * *

><p>Lucius Snow and his cat ("Snow's Cat") aren't mine either. They belong to Columbia TriStar Television, Inc. and CBS Broadcasting, Inc. Kudos and virtual cookies to whoever knows what show they're from ;)<p> 


	5. Book 1: Chapter 5: Thursday

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> May 1, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Nothing this chapter.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Just a short chapter. But, it has Fullmetal indulging in his "inner Ed-ness"! As always, thanks to my betas, and thanks to everyone who's been reading this!

* * *

><p><strong>Book 1: Analysis<strong>

**Chapter 5 - Thursday**

The world was coming closer to him again. A hazy light was piercing the darkness. Fragmented sensations reached him. He welcomed it all, but at the same time…

"_Can't go out._"

"_Stay._"

"_Hide._"

"_I know._"

He remembered that much. He was hiding here. Sleeping. Waiting.

So, why was something drawing him out?

"He_ is subconsciously reaching for you._" That voice again.

"_He?_"

"_The other one. The piece you left behind._"

"_Piece? He doesn't… feel like me._"

"_No,_" the voice sounded sad, "_not anymore._"

A flicker of memory came to him then, a realization. It sent a sudden flash of hot fury through him.

"_He's trying to do _their_ dirty work again._"

"_He can't help it,_" the voice was mildly reproachful. "_He's merely their puppet._"

"_Ha! Their good little dog is more like it._"

Pity filled him then. _They_ were the ones who deserved his anger after all. The other one couldn't help what _they_ had made him.

"_Yes,_" the voice agreed, whether with his words or his sentiments he wasn't sure.

But, the voice didn't speak again, and he struggled to go back to sleep. To dive down beneath the other voices where his lost and changed – _mutilated_ – piece could not find him.

But, he could still feel that insistent tug.

* * *

><p>Thursday morning dawned sunny and wonderfully dry. That alone brought a small smile to the Fullmetal Alchemist's lips as he sat up in bed and stretched. Then, he rotated first his right arm followed by his left leg. His automail responded easily with none of the dull pain that had been plaguing him along the connection sites. Thursday was officially a good day.<p>

Humming an off-key variant of a particularly catchy tune the radio had become fond of lately, he headed for the shower. As he washed, he debated a plan of attack.

Yesterday, he and Colonel Smug had finally finished their notes on the first "chapter" of Parker's research. Rather than continuing on to the next chapter, they had mutually agreed to focus on the first and try to crack the code before continuing. It was slow going, but the Colonel's subordinates had already provided them with a binder full of information, alternately verifying and correcting the information on the first several places included in Parker's account. Whoever the Colonel had researching the eastern part of the country was good.

They had even found his clock tower. _Again_.

And, a pattern was beginning to emerge in what Parker reported correctly and what he deliberately falsified. It wasn't much, but it was a start. They were slowly chipping away at Parker's code.

And, his head had never been clearer. At least not that he could remember.

There was a constant murmur in the back of his mind, but he hadn't experienced another attack. Yet.

He _had_ experienced more vivid dreams than usual. Dreams that were, for the first time in years, creeping into his waking memory with images of that little blond boy. The one with the wide brown eyes. The one who smiled at him, laughed with him, fought with him, huddled up close to him as a storm raged outside.

The dreams – memories? – were pleasant, but Fullmetal stubbornly set his jaw as he began to towel dry. He couldn't let himself relax. An attack would come sooner or later. He had had breakthroughs before where moments of clarity were only the calm before the storm. And, this time, he couldn't let his "condition" or the voices defeat him.

Holding that thought tightly, he reached for his clothes. It was a Thursday, so that meant the gray shirt.

Said shirt was on but unbuttoned, and he had one leg in his pants when there was a sudden thudding at his door. Fullmetal jerked his head up and eyed the door suspiciously. He never got visitors. His hands twitched involuntarily as red eyes and an even redder puddle flashed through his mind.

"Hey!" a voice called from the door, "Elric! General Grand sent us to escort you to the National Library."

Oh. A piece of his good mood dropped away.

"Just a minute," he responded automatically, hopping as he hurried to pull on his pants.

It took about three minutes to button his shirt, stuff it into his pants and then find his shoes where he had kicked them off the night before. That done, he grabbed a black jacket and made his way to the door. He threw it open and found himself level with a uniformed chest. Blinking, Fullmetal took a few steps back to better see the hulking man filling his doorway. As he did so, a large mustache, glasses and a head of fair hair came into view topping the solid, broad-shouldered body.

"You Elric?" the man asked. There was an odd expression on his face. Perhaps he had been expecting someone more imposing. Someone taller.

Biting off a growl at the thought, Fullmetal answered. "Yes, I'm Elric."

"We're the escorts the General assigned to you." Fullmetal could see a second, equally large man with dark hair standing behind the first. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah." The alchemist pulled on his jacket before turning to close and lock his door. Then, he patted his pockets. Keys, State Alchemist's pocket watch… That should be everything.

"We've got a car waiting," said the second man, motioning down the hall. He was also eyeing the gray-haired alchemist oddly.

Fullmetal ignored it and started forward. Then, he frowned and stopped suddenly. "Hey, I haven't had anything to eat yet. And, they sure don't serve anything in the library." He looked back at the two men. "I usually stop by a place just down the street."

The two soldiers exchanged a glance, but the first one nodded after a moment.

"Fine. We'll walk you there."

Fullmetal nodded and turned to head for the stairs. So he had to have bodyguards. It wasn't important. It was an embarrassment he could live with. Just a minor detail really. Because he had bigger fish to fry.

Fifteen minutes later, Fullmetal's good mood had dampened further. Frowning, he let his eyes flick between the two men positioned to either side of him as they made their way through the bustle of morning foot traffic. Sandwiched between the two hulking soldiers, he felt like a prisoner. He also felt very… small.

A growl worked its way out of his throat. Who was the general saying was a tiny little man who couldn't protect himself from even a stray cat?

Suddenly seething, the alchemist had to fight not to stomp his feet as he walked. Stomping was all too obvious when one of your legs was steel up to just above the knee. It was also childish. But, maybe he shouldn't care if people thought he was childish. He was useless and insane, after all. The military's charity case. He might as well use his status as a cracked POW to indulge in juvenile behavior. At least he could amuse himself.

That in mind, he abruptly stopped. His "bodyguards" actually continued for several strides before noticing his absence. When they did, both spun around faster than he would have giving them credit for. Meaty hands reached for their sidearms as they searched the crowded sidewalk.

Fullmetal ignored their frantic motions and turned to look into the nearest storefront. It was a bakery with some wonderful-looking breakfast pastries on display.

"Elric!"

Oh, they'd finally spotted him.

In an instant, the two burly officers were at his side.

"Hey, Elric," the bespectacled man began, "did something happen?"

"No." Fullmetal shook his head. "I found breakfast." He grinned.

* * *

><p>The guards flanking the door to the basement room stared as the Fullmetal Alchemist made his entrance. If yesterday's display of temper had been strange, today's ear to ear grin was oddly terrifying.<p>

The gray-haired man had some kind of pastry stuffed in his mouth, further stretching his grin, and a smudge of jelly on the end of his crooked nose. In his arms was a brown paper bag. And, towering over him, their faces creased into fearsome scowls, were two hulking men in uniforms. His diminutive size thus highlighted by his companions' bulk, the alchemist looked like some strange parody of a child.

A parody that stopped in front of them and looked up, contemplating. His yellow-gold eyes scrutinized each guard in turn as his lips twitched with some private joke. Slowly, the pastry in his mouth disappeared.

"Sir?" one of the guards began cautiously.

He started as the alchemist thrust the bag in his hands up at him.

"Danish?" Fullmetal offered.

The guards exchanged a look. Behind Fullmetal, his apparent bodyguards just looked stony.

"Oh, c'mon." Fullmetal huffed in exasperation at all of them. "I'm sure you've all already heard that I'm crazy. Crazy people act weird sometimes. Just be glad I'm being generous weird and take a blasted Danish."

The guards looked from the now scowling alchemist to the paper bag. Then, they tentatively reached for the bag.

Smiling again, Fullmetal turned his head to look at the two men behind him. "You guys can go now. I'll be holed up in here for the rest of the day."

The men eyed him warily.

Fullmetal sighed. "I'm not going anywhere. I've got work to do. I'll be here until the library closes."

The men exchanged a long look. Something they had been doing all morning.

Then the dark-haired one spoke up. "Alright. But, we'll be waiting at the entrance. And, no more little trips," he added.

His partner nodded. "If you try sneaking out the back or something, we'll find you."

Fullmetal shifted the bag he held to free up one hand and waved it negligently. "Yeah, yeah. I got it," he said. Hearing them start back down the hall, he focused his attention on the sentries. They were eyeing the Danish they had taken as though the innocent pastries might be poisoned. He rolled his eyes and addressed them both. "Hey, is Colonel Smug here?"

"Er…" Obviously, thrown by his nickname for Mustang, the guard to the right stammered an answer. "He's not here yet, Sir."

Fullmetal grinned. "Good."

Then, pulling a fresh pastry from his bag, he strode into the study room.

* * *

><p>Roy Mustang had greeted the morning with all the gusto of a man who has gotten too little sleep over the course of far too many days. Which is to say that he had sworn viciously at the light brightening his apartment, rolled over and pretended that his internal clock wasn't telling him it was time to get up. But, a decade's worth of ingrained habit couldn't be defeated so easily. Nor could the thought that, should he not report in, either Grand or Hawkeye would come to find him and verify that he wasn't Scar's most recent victim. Both would come armed, Grand with soldiers and Hawkeye with enough guns on her person to equip said soldiers. Waking up to either kicking his door down would not be fun nor would the interrogation to follow. If he was lucky, Grand would find him first. But, that was probably wishful thinking. So, that in mind, Mustang was soon up and on his way to the National Library.<p>

Stopping for coffee along the way was an imperative. Because it had been a long and frustrating night with few rewards for his efforts, and those few were bittersweet at best.

First, he had hit a dead end in his efforts to connect Fullmetal and Parker. While Snow hadn't been able to give him the details that were no doubt included in Fullmetal's official report on the Cornello case, it wasn't hard to assume that whatever "miracles" the false priest had performed had been done with the aid of some form of alchemic amplifier. Not an entirely original idea. All manner of con artists routinely used alchemy for a variety of petty tricks. But, if Parker, who had made amplifiers his field of study, was interested in whatever this Cornello used, it must have been either more powerful than the norm or otherwise unique. Interesting and possibly worth further study for the Philosopher's Stone project, but it wasn't much help in solidifying a connection between Parker and Fullmetal.

With a few more errands to run, Mustang had thanked Snow for the information and made arrangements to come back and check the paper's archives when he had more time. Sadly, he hadn't left in time to save his pants. Getting the cat hair out of his black dress pants was going to be a chore.

But, it was a bother he had ignored as he headed out into the deepening twilight to find dinner and meet some other old acquaintances. Unfortunately, none of his contacts had had any useful information. Nothing to explain General Grand's bizarre confidence in this Philosopher's Stone project at any rate.

Tired of dead ends, he had spent the remainder of the evening and into the night poring over Hughes' information. It proved to be less frustrating but more disturbing. Because Maes Hughes might not know alchemy per se – though he was clever enough to understand the basics – but he was very good at what he did. And, Hughes was correct. This "Scar" was using alchemy. Exactly what sort of reaction he was creating within his victims' bodies was debatable. The human body was composed of enough different elements to give an alchemist numerous options, especially when combined with what materials might be present in the surrounding area. Mustang had clear, chilling memories of a State Alchemist named Kimblee who delighted in transmuting human bodies into living bombs.

At least Kimblee was now safely locked away in a military prison for turning his "talents" against his fellow soldiers. Scar was still at large and a danger to any State Alchemist he met. And, it was probably too much to hope that he wouldn't eventually branch out in his targets, most likely to the military at large but possibly even to civilian alchemists. However, unless Scar met him on the streets, there wasn't anything he could do about the situation at the moment.

So, tired and frustrated, Mustang found himself grumpily stalking through the library's corridors. At the top of the stairs leading down to the study room he finally remembered that he had intended to look at Fullmetal's file just to be certain the Cornello case was a dead end.

"Well, it will have to wait," he grumbled to himself as he descended the stairs.

Surely this day couldn't get any worse.

Lost in his personal thundercloud, the colonel traded only a curt nod with the guards at the door. He completely failed to notice the apprehensive glances they threw into the room as he stepped inside. However, there was no missing the Cheshire grin stretching the haggard face of his temporary partner.

"Ahhh, Colonel Smug finally made it," said Fullmetal.

Well, it was something like that. Given he was talking around a huge mouthful of… pastry by the look of it, the exact words were open to interpretation. Mustang debated some alternate interpretations of the "smug" part, but couldn't find one that was any more flattering. Instead, he crossed the room slowly, trying to hide the sudden wariness Fullmetal's grin had prompted.

He had seen the Fullmetal Alchemist when he was pleased with himself. Particularly when he had proved he was right about that blasted clock tower. But, this was not pleased. This was _delighted_, in that particularly vicious way that usually meant certain doom for whomever it was directed toward.

For the first time, Mustang wondered just how mentally disturbed the other alchemist was.

But, as he sat down at the table, Fullmetal just slid a sheet of paper toward him. "I was right," he said, finally swallowing his food. "Parker's alliteration is just a red herring."

Mustang stared at the gray-haired alchemist a moment before looking down at the paper. From the look of it, Fullmetal had finished cataloguing every instance of alliteration in Parker's notes. Picking out the letters Parker had repeated and writing them down in order had indeed produced a message. But, it was doubtful that the crude comment it spelled out concerning the now deceased General Hakuro held any deep alchemic secrets.

"This is unlikely to be the only—" Mustang began.

Fullmetal cut him off by leaning forward to dangle another sheet of paper in front of his face. This one was a rough, handwritten copy of a page from the fake travelogue with a series of transmutation circles drawn over the words.

"I know," the older man said simply. "If you take the fact that the alliteration is always in threes, figure in the number of times Parker uses it and draw lines between the alliterated phrases on any given page…" Fullmetal slapped the page down on the table. "Tycho's Array. Well," he corrected himself, "a variation on it." He yanked the page back to study it a moment. "It's actually pretty nice, taking into account the feedback from the transmutation and limiting it." Fullmetal carelessly flung the page toward Mustang. "If we wanted to do some transmutations involving automail, we'd be set." He clenched his right hand. "But, I'll pass, thanks."

To hide his surprise, Mustang bent to study the second page for several minutes. He read and re-read it, taking his time and forcing himself to ignore the other alchemist, whom he was certain was still watching him with that demented glee. After a moment, he looked up to search the table for the binder with the notes. It seemed Fullmetal had anticipated him because the binder was thrust into his face before he could even start. Taking it with a grunt, Mustang bent back to work.

Twenty minutes later, he gave up. No matter how he looked at it, there was no mistake in the other alchemist's work. Fullmetal was correct; the alliteration could be alternately interpreted to produce a version of one of the arrays that had been a breakthrough in the development of modern automail.

After another moment, Mustang looked up.

"You worked all of this out just this morning?"

Fullmetal shrugged. "I had a hunch."

"A hunch," Mustang echoed in a monotone.

The gray-haired man nodded.

Mustang tried not to let his surprise show. Was this why the military kept Fullmetal on? Did he often have flashes of his old brilliance like this? But, this was more than a moment of clarity, he thought as he studied the other man. For the first time since they had met, there was _life_ in Fullmetal's eyes. Behind the smug grin there was a genuine happiness.

This, the colonel realized, was a glimmer of the Fullmetal Alchemist Snow remembered. The Fullmetal Alchemist whose exploits had made headlines even in Central for being some sort of lovable rogue of a folk hero.

A "lovable" rogue who suddenly reached to pull the research binder back to his side of the table and ask, "So, now that I've proved my point, we should focus on Parker's references to times and places, don't you think?"

For an instant, Mustang almost wished for the old Fullmetal back. But, forcefully reminding himself that the man had spent ten years in a Drachman prison and deserved what happiness he could find, he quietly reached for a fresh sheet of paper.


	6. Book 1: Chapter 6: Friday

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> May 4, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Some blood.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thanks to everyone who's been reading!

* * *

><p><strong>Book 1: Analysis<strong>

**Chapter 6 - Friday**

The outside world was _right there_. He could see hazy impressions, hear muted words. He could feel, taste, smell. It was distant, an echo of real sensation, but he was aware of everything.

He was _awake_. Awake as he hadn't been for so long. Not since he had entered this endless, timeless night.

But, awakening was not the joy his sleep-fogged self had thought it would be.

Because now he knew _why_ he had been sleeping. He remembered. He was awake, and he remembered everything. He remembered…

"_Brother!_"

No. _No!_ He couldn't let himself think it. Anything he knew, the other one might know. And, anything the other one knew, _they_ could learn.

So, as he had for so long, he held the promises he would not break and those he had promised close to his heart and forced them from his conscious mind. Because it wasn't yet time to fulfill those precious promises. Not yet. Not now.

Especially not now. There hadn't been a worse time to choose to wake up in the last twenty years.

But, he hadn't chosen. The other one had pulled him. Pulled and pulled, dragging him from the darkness inch by inch.

"_Why didn't you stop him?_" he called.

"_Couldn't._"

"_Tried._"

"_Too strong._"

"_Hurt you._"

"_I don't understand,_" he said.

"_The other part of you was pulling too strongly." _Ah, that voice. The familiar one. _"The only way to stop him would have been to take you completely under again._"

"_So?_"

He had spent decades in oblivion. Another year or three made no difference.

_"It has been too long. Your soul can only endure so much._"

"_Look, I'll decide if—_" And, suddenly, he knew the voice, recognized the presence drifting closer to him. "_You!_" he roared, filled with a sudden visceral rage as memories long buried tried to surface. "_Why? Why are_ you_ here?_"

"_To help you._"

"_Well, you're doing a great job of _that_!_"

"_Edward,_" the voice was reproachful. "_Your body and mind may still exist in the real world, but, if you retreat too far beneath the others for too long, you will lose yourself forever._"

"_Lose myself?_"

"_Like the others._"

To lose himself like the others here. To exist as a tortured echo of himself. To forget who he was and what he had to do.

The thought settled with a sudden cold dread in the core of his being.

"_But, I can't go out,_" he said, lost. "_Not_ now_. And, if _he_ keeps pulling at me..._"

"_I know._"

"_So, what do you expect me to do?_"

"_The only thing you can do. Wait._"

* * *

><p>The very air was tense as the Fullmetal Alchemist greeted the sunny Friday morning with an absent yawn. Or so it felt to him. There was a tingling beneath his skin, an anticipation. He was antsy. Ready to move, ready to run, ready for <em>something<em>. His mind was practically buzzing. There were no voices, and yet, it felt… crowded.

Was this from excitement? He _was_ excited about his recent successes. Success in holding the voices at bay and success at decoding Parker's notes. Even if he had only ruled out the decoys, he had been able to _think_. His head was clear and his mind sharp. And, while Parker's code wasn't cracked yet, he and Colonel Smug were only a few twists away from unlocking its secrets. He could feel it. If only those two big oafs Grand had saddled him with had let him stay yesterday. He had been so close…

Well, no help for it. It was a new day, and, today, Parker's notes would offer up their secrets.

Smiling at the thought, Fullmetal began to move through his morning routine. Rotate right arm – check. Rotate left leg – check. Stand, stretch, braid hair…

His hands met empty air as he reached behind his head.

And, Fullmetal froze.

The action had become routine over the course of this very odd week, but never before had he remembered exactly what he was trying to do. He was trying to _braid_ his hair. Hair he no longer had. But, he remembered having it. Remembered the long blond hair he had worn in a loose braid down his back.

He felt a flicker of remorse at the long passed loss. His hair had been one of his few vanities. Something to make him stand out. To define him.

But, it was gone, and it wasn't coming back anytime soon.

Shrugging it off, Fullmetal resumed his morning routine, angling for the shower. As he went, his eyes fell on the open door to his closet.

And, an idea began to form.

* * *

><p>General Grand kept his face in a scowl as the guards he had placed at the library gave him their latest report.<p>

The younger of the guards, 2nd Lieutenant Boulton, began, "And, then, yesterday." He hesitated, throwing a glance at his partner, 1st Lieutenant Gloster. The other man avoided his gaze, and Boulton bit his lip. "Yesterday," he tried again.

"Get on with it!" Grand barked.

"Sir!" Boulton stiffened. "Yesterday, the Fullmetal Alchemist arrived with the guards you assigned and a bag of pastries. He was very insistent that we each take one, which we did to placate him. We did not eat them." Boulton took a moment to choose his words. It sounded so normal when he said it, not like the bizarre scene it had been. "Fullmetal seemed… different. He was in a much… happier mood than usual. But, the unusual behavior was not problematic. From that point, Fullmetal worked quietly until Colonel Mustang arrived."

"And then?" Grand prompted.

"They seemed to be working in their usual way until late afternoon when an argument began," said Boulton. "That's… not unusual, but this particular argument was quite heated." Then, he quickly added, "However, there was no violence." He paused. "Well, some threats were voiced as… as well as some rather crude accusations about the Colonel and Fullmetal's relatives, but nothing physical."

Grand swept the commentary aside with an impatient hand. Crude comments from bickering soldiers was not news.

"Was the argument concerning their research?" he growled.

"Yes, Sir," Boulton stammered. "We entered at six o'clock to inform both alchemists that the library would be closing and to collect their research. We found them arguing at that point."

There was a subtle shift in his partner's stance, and Boulton darted a glance at the older man.

Taking the opening, Gloster straightened and addressed the general. "We found the Fullmetal and Flame Alchemists in an argument concerning a pattern they had uncovered in the research notes. Fullmetal was quite adamant that it was another of the research's apparently many false leads."

Something in Grand's eyes sharpened. "False leads?"

Gloster gave a short nod. "Fullmetal indicated that he had already decoded two sets of decoys during his time working alone. Judging by what I overhead, Colonel Mustang doublechecked his work and agreed with his findings."

A narrow smile curled into existence beneath Grand's slim moustache. "Excellent work," he said. "Report to your station as usual. I will be down to review their work later."

"Sir!" As one, the guards saluted once more and left.

As the door closed behind them, Grand turned his gaze to the copy of Fullmetal's official file lying on his desk. He had originally meant to give the alchemist until the end of the day at least. But, Archer had been correct. Fuhrer Bader would be addressing the assembly late in the afternoon. There was little doubt that he would be announcing his formal resignation and nominating his successor.

Grand's eyes narrowed. He needed the secrets of the Philosopher's Stone _now_. And, from the sounds of it, Fullmetal was close. In more ways than one.

The General looked to the clock. He would give Fullmetal a half hour. With any luck, by then he would have broken the code. If not, he would _order_ the diminutive alchemist to tell him what he knew. And, Fullmetal would obey. He could do nothing less.

Grand's thin smile widened. "I knew the information was still in that cracked head of yours, Fullmetal."

* * *

><p>"I wonder what I should expect this morning," Roy Mustang mused as he finished washing away the last traces of shaving cream.<p>

Perhaps today Fullmetal would be waiting for him with a full course meal half-eaten on the table and a stack of notes at his elbow that detailed how to create a Philosopher's Stone. Or maybe he would be late and come in leading a brass band before sitting down, the band playing all the while, and crafting an actual Philosopher's Stone from the ether with just a clap of his hands. He didn't know what to expect from Fullmetal anymore.

Toweling his face dry, Mustang went over the week in his mind. He had begun with a grouchy, taciturn partner who was competent if prone to debilitating headaches. Yesterday, he had found himself with a man who defined the term "eccentric genius".

And yet, even as he stuffed his face like a starved wolverine and talked with his mouth disgustingly full, there had been a glint in the older alchemist's eye. Fullmetal _knew_ he was behaving like an idiot. He knew it, and he enjoyed it. And, he could get away with it because he probably hadn't been so productive in years.

He was going to crack Parker's code, Mustang could feel it. Whether it was his purported intellect at work or half-remembered knowledge of Parker's methods, Fullmetal was close to a breakthrough. He probably would have stayed at the library all night to do so if his bodyguards hadn't forcibly removed him.

And, once the code was cracked, what then?

"What indeed," Mustang said aloud as he adjusted the collar of his uniform. For a moment, he studied his own reflection. "Fullmetal just wants to be useful. No," the colonel corrected himself, frowning. "He wants to be the person he was again." And, he was close, Mustang sensed. "And, me," dark eyes narrowed, "I just want to keep pressing toward my goal."

And, if they were successful, this project might yet help them both.

"But, is it that easy?"

His reflection had no answers.

* * *

><p>As he met them at the door to the basement study room, the guards' reactions were a study in forced nonchalance.<p>

Good.

"I thought I'd dress up today," Fullmetal explained.

Oh, nice. This time, the pair weren't fast enough to stop their eyebrows from making a joint dash up their foreheads. He, however, was somewhat more successful in hiding his grin as he glanced back at his two bodyguards. He managed to catch them rolling their eyes for what must have been the twentieth time.

Personally, he thought the wardrobe he had cobbled together was quite stylish. He wore black pants with a black button-down shirt. Nothing unusual there except he looked like he might be attending a funeral. But, to alleviate that impression, he had topped the ensemble off with a red coat. A brilliantly red coat. The color was a bit brighter than he had been aiming for, true. But, he considered it an accomplishment that his hasty array had evenly dyed the material. And, the bright color was certainly eye-catching. He liked that.

It was also somehow hauntingly familiar. But, even now, with the voices mercifully silent, memory eluded him.

"Well then," he made a shooing gesture at the two burly bodyguards, "I've got work to do." Ignoring their almost growled responses, he turned and strode for the door. His face twisted up into a toothy smirk as the two sentries before him practically scurried out of the way.

His past was something he could pursue later. Today. Today, he would do it. Today, he would decode Parker's notes and prove that he was still useful.

Thirty minutes later, he was well on his way.

Tipping his chair back on two legs, Fullmetal grinned. Once he had recollected his train of thought from yesterday evening, it had only taken him a few minutes to finally crack the code hidden in Parker's pattern of deliberately false information. It was at once complex and strangely simple. And, oddly, familiar.

The thought made him pause.

"_Secret. Promised._"

The gray-haired alchemist tensed, nearly losing his precarious balance. But, the whispered words faded away into silence.

Fullmetal's grin returned as he lowered his chair back to the floor. He was still in control. Shying away from whatever memory had triggered the voices, he focused on the present. He knew the code. Now, to apply it.

He reached for his pencil and paused as his eyes landed on the second chair at the table. By default, the Colonel's chair.

Slowly, an idea began to form. The work was going so well, after all. He had time. And, it was so much fun to shock Colonel Smug.

Decision made, Fullmetal dug in his coat for the chalk he had pocketed back at his apartment. With the stick of chalk in hand, he stood and walked around to tug the second chair out from the table. Then, he knelt and carefully sketched an array onto the floor around it. He studied his handiwork for a moment before reaching to lay his hands against the circle's outer edge. Closing his eyes, he began to concentrate.

His mind was clear, and he knew what he wanted to create. Holding the image firm in mind, he began the transmutation. Energy crackled around his hands, flowing into and following the precise lines of his construction formula.

After a moment, it was done. The light beating against his closed lids dimmed. The thrum of eager energy died away.

Fullmetal opened his eyes to survey his handiwork. The chair was there, but different, its form reshaped to match the image in his head. And, it was perfect, down to the last detail exactly as he had planned it.

For a minute, the alchemist thought of claiming it for his own. It was certainly the better chair now. Aesthetically anyway.

But, no, he wanted the Colonel to see the full effect.

Grinning with the thought, Fullmetal pushed the chair back to the table and rubbed away the chalk circle with the toe of his shoe.

Then, he resumed his own seat. Time to get back to work. Stretching out his mismatched hands, he cracked the knuckles of his left and made an impressive attempt at drawing a creak from the automail. Then, he bent over the pages laid out on the table and began to carefully apply the code to the first chapter of the false travelogue.

* * *

><p>Mustang breathed a sigh of relief as he strode into the records department. He wasn't especially early, but there was enough time for a quick look at Fullmetal's file. That in mind, he strode up to the clerk at the main desk.<p>

"I'd like to look at the Fullmetal Alchemist's records," he said. "The proper name is Edward Elric. He's an active State Alchemist."

The sergeant at the desk blinked at him owlishly for a moment. "Fullmetal? Elric? Active?" he repeated, succinctly summing up the pertinent information. Then, he was in motion. "Just a minute."

Startled by the man's abrupt exit, Mustang watched as the sergeant disappeared into the depths of the records department's shelves. Well, at that speed and given there were only a limited number of active State Alchemists, it shouldn't take him long. The Colonel turned his thoughts toward the research waiting for him. Did it really hold the key to creating a Philosopher's Stone? A way to overcome alchemy's most basic law? Was such a thing possible? They were so close he would know soon.

The thought was almost frightening.

He shook it off and glanced at the clock. He had been waiting ten minutes.

Another ten passed, and he began to re-assess his earlier estimate.

Finally, the sergeant re-emerged with a disgruntled look on his face. "I'm sorry, Sir," he said, "but Fullmetal's file doesn't seem to be here at the moment. I don't have a record of anyone requesting it, so it's probably been misplaced." His scowl was thunderous. "I'll speak with the new interns. Could you come back this afternoon?" The look on his face indicated that he might be doing more than _speaking_ with the interns.

Mustang found he couldn't muster up any sympathy for their plight. Instead, he muttered an affirmative and took his leave. He was starting to think that there was a bizarre and far-reaching conspiracy at work with the sole goal of keeping him away from Fullmetal's file. A conspiracy he would very much like to torch, he thought as he parked his car as close to the library as he could and started down the sidewalk toward the imposing structure.

"Colonel!"

Mustang turned to find 2nd Lieutenant Breda coming up behind him at a brisk walk.

"I was hoping I could catch you before you got to the library," Breda said, holding out a slim folder. "This is the rest of the research me and Falman compiled on the eastern area."

Mustang accepted the folder with a short nod. "Good work." At least _something_ was going right today.

Breda fell in a half-step behind him. He had just made a sound that might have been the start of a question when Mustang remembered a crucial detail. Breda and Falman had both read Fullmetal's file! The thought brought him to a stop so fast the shorter man nearly plowed into him.

"Breda," he started, turning, "Do you remember anything about an incident with a conman posing as a priest named Cornello in Fullmetal's file?"

Recovering, Breda cocked his head. "Yeah," he allowed after a moment's thought, "that was the last entry before Fullmetal went MIA."

"Was there anything about this Cornello using an alchemic amplifier?"

Breda nodded. "There was something about Fullmetal saying it was powerful but unstable. Apparently, it broke after the guy over-used it trying to fight Fullmetal."

It was as much as Mustang had expected. Hiding his disappointment, he simply inclined his head in acknowledgement. He started to turn.

"I noticed something else in Fullmetal's file," Breda said suddenly. "Those places you've had us looking up. Interesting how Fullmetal visited all of them."

* * *

><p>Fullmetal stared at the pages surrounding him. Slowly, he reached for the farthest sheet of paper and began carefully re-tracing his steps.<p>

"This can't be it!" he hissed. His automail hand snapped out to snatch up another page of notes. "Right there!" he growled to himself, laying it down and stabbing the paper with a steel pointer. "The distance Parker gives for the country. 763.2 kilometers." With his left hand he scribbled a quick equation. "The distance is off by 42.1 kilometers. If you figure in the position on the page in relation to his next "error" and calculate that with—"

His words trailed off into incoherent mumbles as he carefully plotted a transmutation circle, following the equation buried in Parker's writing. After several long minutes, it was done. Fullmetal swore as he laid the finished circle beside the one he had completed earlier.

They were identical.

Fullmetal's flesh fingers dug into his short hair as he swore again.

"This can't be it! This is all about transmuting alloys." Fullmetal yanked his glasses off and massaged his temples. It was quiet, but his head throbbed all the same. "What does any of this have to do with the Philosopher's Stone?"

Of course, the notes could have been a false lead all along, something whispered in the back of his mind. If so, he had cracked the uncrackable code. He had proven his mind was as sharp as ever. He had completed the task he was assigned. _He_ had been useful even if the notes were not.

A sense of smug accomplishment cooled his frustration.

But, only for an instant.

Then, he was back in General Grand's office the night this business first disturbed the monotony he had enjoyed for over a decade. That night when, before the Colonel arrived, Grand had looked him straight in the eye and laid down an ultimatum.

"_Crack this code, Fullmetal. By the end of the week. Bring me the information on how to make a Philosopher's Stone. That's an _order_._"

Fullmetal could feel himself shaking.

He always followed orders.

Always.

"But, it's not here," he whispered to himself. "I can't—" He sucked in a breath and reached for his glasses. "Maybe in the next chapters. But, I'll need more time to—"

There was a rattle at the door, and it swung open to reveal General Grand. His eyes swept the room, lingering briefly on the transmuted chair before coming to rest squarely on the gray-haired alchemist.

"Mustang isn't here yet?" Without waiting for an answer, he shut the door. "Good. We can get on with this."

* * *

><p>Mustang spun around to face Breda again so fast the other man took a startled step back. "Wait, what?" he asked.<p>

His mind was turning Breda's words over and over. Fullmetal… and the places in Parker's notes… Fullmetal had visited those places. Fullmetal had spent his earliest years as a State Alchemist traveling all over the country. To the places referenced in the travelogue. Places Fullmetal would have known. Thirty years ago.

Breda was watching his commanding officer curiously. "I said, I thought it was interesting how all of the places you've had us research were listed in Fullmetal's file," he said carefully. "I assumed there must be a connection."

Mustang groaned as the pieces finally came together. "You're right. There _is_ a connection. A connection between the places, Fullmetal and his blasted clock tower!"

Ignoring Breda's confused expression, he spun and resumed his path to the library in quick strides.

"Thank you, 2nd Lieutenant," Mustang called back. "That was _exactly_ what I needed."

How could he have missed it? It was suddenly so obvious.

The notes they were decoding hadn't been written by Ulrich Parker. They had been written by _Fullmetal_.

* * *

><p>Fullmetal felt a chill slither down his spine as General Grand strode over to the table where he was seated. And, in that brief moment, he could have sworn he heard a voice – like and not like the voices he knew so well – quietly curse in the back of his mind.<p>

"Well, Fullmetal," Grand began, eyes cutting across the papers scattered around the smaller alchemist, "have you cracked the code?"

He had done his job. He had followed his orders. The news he had was nothing but the truth. Why did he feel this terrible sense of something cold and hard settling in his stomach?

"Yes, Sir," he said. His voice sounded dull even to his own ears.

He had cracked the code. Why did he feel like he had failed?

"And?" Grand's voice was like steel.

"The code relies on patterns hidden in which of the facts throughout the text are correct or incorrect," Fullmetal explained in a monotone. "We've verified which are which for most of the first 'chapter' of the research. Using the data we collected, I decoded half of the first chapter." His voice dropped as he reached to pick up one of the pages before him. "This is the transmutation circle I found. I've double-checked it already."

Grand gave the paper only a cursory glance. "This is?" he asked.

"A very refined array to use in transmuting alloys."

"Alloys," Grand repeated.

"Yes, Sir." Fullmetal never lifted his gaze from the table in front of him, eyes blindly staring at the scattered evidence of his failure. Why had he thought even briefly that he had succeeded? In anything? He was useless.

Useless.

He didn't want to be useless.

He wanted to do something right.

"Fullmetal." Grand's voice was low and close, so close.

Fullmetal looked up to find the General leaning over him.

"This is all you've decoded from the notes?"

Fullmetal nodded.

"I _ordered_ you to decode the notes."

The smaller alchemist felt oddly light-headed. There was a pressure building in the back of his mind. A sound of some sort. "I decoded the notes, Sir. At least, the first part. With more time, maybe—"

"You've had the notes. You've had time," Grand bit out. "Now, tell me about the Philosopher's Stone, Fullmetal. That's an order."

The pressure in his head condensed into a sudden pounding.

The Philosopher's Stone. The General wanted the secret of the Philosopher's Stone. It should be in the notes. But, it wasn't. He needed to find it. But, he couldn't. No. No, that was wrong. He just needed to remember it.

"_Can'tcan'tcan'tcan'tcan'tcan't!_"

Fullmetal grit his teeth at the onslaught.

"The Philosopher's Stone—" he began.

"_Never, never._"

The dull, red glow of a setting sun, as crimson as the Stone itself, flooding the room where he sat in a floor strewn with papers. A sense of grief and horror.

"_Can'tcan'tcan't._"

The secret of the Philosopher's Stone buried in words that said one thing and meant another. A week spent sequestered amid dusty texts older than the walls around him.

"_Won't let you._"

Past and present commingled as Fullmetal stared at Grand with empty eyes.

"_Can't let you._"

"It's just like back then," he whispered. "I remember it."

There was a blur of motion, his shirt bit into his neck painfully, and his feet suddenly couldn't quite find the floor. Far away, there was a crash.

"If you remember, tell me, Fullmetal," Grand roared in his ears. "That's an order."

"But….," horror crept into the slim alchemist's golden eyes, "it's not— The Stone. It's—"

His tongue froze. It was horrific. The truth of the Philosopher's Stone. It wasn't something that should be spoken.

But, this was the General. And, it was an order.

He always obeyed orders.

"_Don't._"

"_Will hurt._"

"_Please._"

He didn't understand. The voices were oddly pleading. Were they scared? It would be okay. It was always okay when he obeyed orders.

"_No, that's when it hurts the most._"

But, that couldn't be true. He remembered. It only hurt when he disobeyed. He remembered.

"_No._"

"_Forgotten._"

"_Can't let you._"

"_Promised._"

"The Philosopher's Stone is—" he began again.

"_Can't let you._"

"_Promised._"

"_Promised Ed._"

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a quiet voice, oddly like his own, echoed clearly in the sudden silence.

"_Do it._"

And, the world exploded.

Grand nearly dropped the gray-haired alchemist when the man let out a throat-rending scream that clawed at his eardrums. But, overcoming his surprise, he instead tightened his grip.

"Fullmetal!" he barked, shaking the smaller man like a rag doll. "Fullmetal, listen to me!"

But, there was no recalling Fullmetal now. His eyes were closed tight, and his body had started to spasm violently.

Grand swore and lowered the convulsing alchemist to the floor. For a minute, he watched the body writhe against the cold concrete, feeling his lip curl. What a pathetic waste.

His predecessors had been monumentally sloppy. Had he been in charge of Fullmetal from the beginning— Well, there was nothing to be done now but to salvage what he could. He strode to the door, considering his remaining options. Storming out into the hall, he addressed the guards.

"I need a medic immediately! You!" he threw a hand at Boulton, "see if there are any medical alchemists in the library." He turned to Gloster. "Call the military hospital and ask for Dr. Dornier. Tell him Fullmetal's had another fit. Go!"

"Sir!"

As the guards dashed away to carry out his orders, Grand noticed Colonel Mustang and the bodyguards he had assigned to Fullmetal heading down the hall toward him.

"Sir," Mustang saluted, "is there a problem?"

"It seems Fullmetal's had another of his fits," said Grand. He eyed Mustang and the guards in turn before nodding. "Stand watch and escort the Fullmetal Alchemist to the hospital once the medics get here. I'll join you later."

With that, he strode down the hall. Fullmetal had been so close. If the doctors could get him conscious again, the situation might yet be salvageable.

Mustang stared after Grand in mute shock. A fit? That horrible, inhuman screech that had echoed up to the main floor was a "fit"? Fullmetal's bodyguards had their hands on their ears and were looking at him almost pleadingly. In any other situation it would have been comical coming from two such imposing figures. But, in this case, he understood their reluctance. Dreading what he would find, Mustang turned to the door to the study room.

Fullmetal was lying in the floor in a fetal position, his glasses missing. A continuous, thin wail trickled from his lips. As Mustang stepped closer, he saw that the man's eyes were closed, his mouth clenched.

"Fullmetal." Mustang crouched beside the older man, struck again by how small he was. Like this, Fullmetal looked even more like a child. A thin, little boy with a too old face.

"Fullmetal!" he tried again.

In response, the gray-haired alchemist released a choked scream and began to convulse, shaking his head from side to side as his body spasmed. The automail arm nearly caught Mustang in the face. Throwing himself out of range, the Colonel landed heavily on his bottom. Then, he watched in horror as Fullmetal's body further contorted itself. Blood began to trickle out of his mouth.

"Fullmetal! Elric!"

Mustang threw himself on the smaller man, trying to still the thrashing. Straddling Fullmetal's stomach, he placed his hands to either side of the alchemist's head.

"Elric!"

Name. Fullmetal had a proper name. If he could just remember… He had known it this morning.

"Edward!"

It was like flipping a switch.

Fullmetal's convulsions stilled. His screams ebbed away into ragged gasps. His eyes slit open. Muzzy, they stared sightlessly for a moment before flicking up to meet Mustang's levelly. For an instant, life crept into his gaze, and something almost calculating moved behind his eyes. Then, Fullmetal opened his mouth, weakly spitting blood to the side.

"Tell the General," he whispered through blood flecked lips. "Tell him."

Mustang frowned. "Tell him what?"

Fullmetal's mouth twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile. "Tell…" His limbs spasmed suddenly, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Tell him," he repeated, voice growing softer with each word, "… he's a….."  
>His voice trailed away, and he soundlessly mouthed the final epithet as his body went suddenly, completely limp.<p>

And, the resulting silence was somehow more chilling than the screams.

* * *

><p><strong>End Book 1<strong>


	7. Interlude: You Can't Take Me

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> May 11, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Some violence.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Just a short flashback between the story's books/major arcs. As always, many thanks to my betas, artists and everyone who has been reading.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude – You Can't Take Me<strong>

**Late July 1884**

He couldn't be far from the border now. He couldn't. Because he had run so far. And, he was still running. In the right direction if his compass could be trusted. It had taken a bullet meant for his automail hand. But, the magnetic needle still turned. Still pointed the way.

Which was good because he couldn't trust his wits for guidance. Not in this place. He didn't know this strange, white world of snow and trees and merciless wind. This world where wind and ice tore at his clothes and hair, driving frozen needles into his skin. This icy world that transformed his automail's strength into a weakness, creating a dull burning where frigid steel met fragile flesh. This world where he was blind and deaf. Where his vision was nothing but a swirling frenzy of white on white. Where his ears heard nothing but the roar of the wind and the sharp cries of the dogs that hunted him.

Lost in the maelstrom, it was so hard to think. His head throbbed in time with the aching in his shoulder and leg. In time with the fresh wound across his chest.

And, worse than the storm, it felt… crowded in his head. It was stuffed to bursting with alien thoughts. The feeling was like, and not like, _that time_.

"_Who are you?_"

"_What is this?_"

"_Let me go!_"

"_Let me out!_"

"I can't right now," he whispered, never hearing his own words as they were torn away into the white oblivion. It didn't matter. Words were unnecessary. "I can't do anything now," he continued. "I have to get away or they'll capture us all."

"_Capture?_"

"_Already captured._"

"_Trapped._"

"_Let me out! Let me out!_"

"I don't know _how_." He was pleading now. His head was slowly exploding. His ports were eating into his flesh like cold fire. The tender, healing skin on his chest was a searing agony. "I'll… get you out. I'll help you," he promised. "But, I can't yet. If they catch me—"

They couldn't catch him.

They couldn't know what he had.

"_…Help?_"

"Yes."

He could hear shouts in the distance and tried to increase his pace. But, the snow was so thick, and his limbs were sluggish and unresponsive. Even the automail ones.

"_Help?_"

"_You? Help?_"

"_Help us?_"

"Yes, I want to help you."

The voices behind him were getting louder.

"_Why?_"

"_For what?_"

"_What do you want?_"

He closed his eyes. They were right. He _did_ want something.

"I just want to save him."

He stumbled. The baying of the dogs was ever closer.

"I don't care what happens to me. I just want to save him."

His automail leg was jerking strangely. He couldn't feel the still-living flesh above the port.

"Even if you won't help, I won't let them…. I won't let them find out what you are."

He forced himself to stand, dragging the useless leg.

"I won't let it happen again."

"_Who are you?_"

"_Who?_"

"_Who?_"

His pursuers were on him suddenly in an explosion of snow. Ducking, he caught the first one with a wild swing of his automail before lunging after the second.

He just needed to get away, gain some distance. The border was close. It had to be.

A muffled thump, and his good leg buckled as a bullet ripped through skin and muscle. With a startled cry, he was thrown down into the snow. He tried, desperately, to bring his hands together, but his automail arm was slow, too slow, and they knew, they had realized. Because rough hands tore at the unresponsive automail, pinning it, finding the connections that would disconnect the nerves. Without his arm, he couldn't use alchemy. But, he couldn't let them take him either.

He had promised. He had promised him, and he had promised them. And, he would not, _could_ not fail.

So, he kicked and he bit and he screamed and he fought.

But, there were too many, and the darkness inevitably pulled him down into its waiting arms.

"_Who are you?_"

"…_Ed. I'm Ed._"


	8. Book 2: Chapter 8: Why Did It?

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> May 11, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Minor violence/implied unpleasantness.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> And, back to the present.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 8 – Why Did It All Go Wrong?**

Two weeks ago, Roy Mustang had stood frozen in a suddenly empty corridor, unsure exactly what he had just witnessed.

Instants after Fullmetal had fallen silent, a flood of personnel had descended on the cramped basement room. There had been a medic, a State Alchemist he vaguely recognized, and a bevy of soldiers. He had briefly recounted those last, terrifying minutes to the medic – minus Fullmetal's "message" for the general – and then the situation was swept out of his hands. The medic had taken over, barking orders, and, minutes later, they were all gone, taking Fullmetal with them.

Mustang took a step after them. Grand had ordered him to accompany Fullmetal to the hospital after all. But, something made him pause. Turning, he looked back into the room in which he had spent so much of his week. The only evidence of the tumultuous events was Fullmetal's chair, lying on its side in the floor.

Spying the older man's glasses not too far away, Mustang moved to collect them. He gave them a brief glance, but they seemed to be undamaged. Then, his eyes fell on the red coat draped over the fallen chair. It was a simple affair with a hood. Its only distinguishing features were its bright color and the fact that it, oddly, didn't have any form of buttons or snaps to close it. He collected the coat as well and then let his eyes run over the notes scattered across the table. It looked like Fullmetal had been on a roll again. He recognized the gray-haired alchemist's scrawl across most of the papers.

For a moment, Mustang was tempted to stay and see what Fullmetal had uncovered before his latest attack. But, there wasn't time. And, General Grand had left looking like a man running damage control, not a man carrying the secret to the Philosopher's Stone. Giving the notes a last longing look, he started for the door.

Something… off played across his peripheral vision. Mustang stopped and looked to the other side of the table. Where there had been a simple, wooden chair there was now a monstrosity. It was still a chair. Technically. Just the ugliest one he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. The slats that formed the back were shaped like twisting serpents topped with grinning skulls. Walking around the table revealed that the legs were similarly decorated and the seat was in the shape of a demonic, fanged mouth. Charming.

"Where did this—?"

His eyes picked out the telltale smudges of chalk on the floor.

"Alchemy?" Mustang stared numbly at the silent evidence still faintly visible on the concrete floor.

Then, he stretched out a foot and further obliterated the afterimage of a transmutation circle. Minutes later, he was trotting up the stairs to the outside, holding Fullmetal's belongings and more confusing thoughts than he cared to admit.

* * *

><p>"Here's the report on that alchemist conman we've been tracking," Breda announced, laying a paper on Colonel Mustang's desk, startling the dark-haired man out of his memories. "He's been spotted out east, probably trying to get as far away from Western Headquarters as he can after that stunt with Lieutenant General Northrop."<p>

"That stunt being the only reason we're bothering with a petty thief," Mustang murmured, his eyes drifting to the report. Admittedly, a petty thief who had robbed the general blind in an embarrassing incident involving far too much alcohol and the entire Greater Amestrian Ballet Troupe.

"Did anyone get photos?" Havoc asked, leaning over in his seat to flip through the stack of files Breda had left at his own workspace.

"Officially, no," said Breda. "Unofficially – Talk to Sergeant Bell in Communications. Might cost you some cigarettes, but the tutu? It was _pink_ with _sparkles_."

Sometimes, Mustang mused, it was like running a kindergarten. But, he had missed the inane banter during his week spent locked away in the library.

Fighting a scowl at the thought, he nodded an acknowledgement of the report to Breda and hunched over his paperwork. It had been two weeks. Two weeks since Fuhrer Bader had announced he was stepping down and naming Lockheed his successor, throwing Central Command into a secret furor of shifting allegiances. Two weeks since the struggle to decode Parker's – no, _Fullmetal's_ – notes. Two weeks since he had found himself able only to watch helplessly as the Fullmetal Alchemist slipped away into oblivion.

A coma, the nurse had said. The gray-haired alchemist had been comatose when he reached the hospital. At least the blood oozing from his mouth had only been from biting his tongue while seizing. Aside from that and some bruises, Fullmetal was, physically, in good health.

As to his mental health, no one would say.

Of course, no one was supposed to say anything at all. It had taken all of the Colonel's considerable charm – plus an absurd story about Fullmetal being an estranged half-uncle on his mother's side – to pry the little he knew out of a nurse he met that first night in the hospital. And, from the look on her face, she had told him out of pity. Or, possibly, as a reward for his creativity.

Whatever the case, he had heard nothing since. Grand had suspended the project the same night Fullmetal collapsed. The Monday after that surreal Friday, Mustang had found himself back in his office surrounded by mountains of paperwork.

"_Nice to know I was so vital to the project,_" Mustang thought.

He suspected his presence had been purely to babysit Fullmetal. Because he was young, new to Central Command and unlikely to be missed. And, because Grand could hold Ishval over his head.

Mustang grimaced.

"A cenz for your thoughts, Colonel."

Mustang looked up to find that Breda was still in front of his desk. The heavyset man had appropriated his stapler and was fussing over the exact placement of a staple in the upper corner of his reports.

"A cenz?" Mustang arched a brow. "It's going to cost you more than that."

"Fine then." Breda finally found the perfect place for his staple and stamped it home. "It's Friday. How about I buy you a drink?"

A thin smile lifted Mustang's lips. "I believe I'll take you up on that, 2nd Lieutenant."

"Good." Breda turned. "Hey, Havoc, you got a date tonight?"

The blond man scowled. "No."

"Then, come on with us."

"Like I'm going to find a date with the Colonel there," Havoc groused. He had made no secret of the fact that his last three dates had approached him purely to fish for information about his commanding officer.

"I'd be happy to give you some tips," Mustang purred.

Havoc snorted and tossed his pen across the table at the gray-haired Falman. "Yo, Falman. You still owe me a drink. Come along and treat me, huh?"

Covering his smile by bending over his paperwork once more, Mustang mused that his particular kindergarten was well worth some minor irritation.

* * *

><p>"Can you hear me?"<p>

Glazed eyes tracked the white-coated doctor as he moved around the bed. Hear? Yes, he could hear. He started to close his eyes again.

Wait.

He was supposed to do something now.

He should… answer. That was it.

"Yes."

"Good!" The doctor beamed. "Understanding and response – good signs." He scribbled something on his ever-present clipboard.

Behind him, there was a knock at the room's only door. Before the doctor could move toward it, the door swung open to reveal a bespectacled man swathed in a coat and hat. Tipping his head back, the man regarded the doctor with narrowed eyes. The little of his face that was visible between a thick mustache and his hat was dotted with age spots, a mute testament to his years.

"Who are you?" demanded the doctor. He took a step toward the newcomer. "This is a restricted ward."

"I should hope." The old man reached to remove his hat, uncovering a head of wispy, thinning hair. "That Grand… calling me out in this weather. It's getting chilly. Not good for these old bones. So, it had better be something important." His eyes swept past the doctor to focus on the patient sitting up in bed. "This is?"

The flustered doctor started to answer but visibly stopped himself. "_You're_ the specialist General Grand was sending?"

"Obviously, or the guards wouldn't have allowed me this far." The old man shuffled toward the bed.

The patient turned his head slightly to regard the newcomer with drug-fogged golden eyes. The sight froze the old man in his tracks.

"This is—!" A hand snapped back to snatch the clipboard from the younger doctor. "Who is this man?" he asked again as he scanned the scrawl of notations.

Scowling, the doctor answered. "Elric. He's a State—"

"Fullmetal!" the old man chortled. "Why, it's been twenty years. I barely recognized him with his hair a sensible length." He moved closer to the patient, eyes bright behind his thick spectacles. "Not aged well, have you, Fullmetal?"

There was no answer.

"Well, it's your own fault. Such an unreasonable child." The old man's gaze returned to the clipboard as he rattled off questions at the doctor. "Is he eating? Sleeping? Responding to direct orders?"

"I— yes," said the doctor. "It's all recorded."

"Yes, I see." The old man tossed the clipboard toward the young doctor and turned to grace Fullmetal with a smile that showed off a single, glinting gold tooth. "Well, let's fix you back up, Fullmetal. It'll be like old times."

And, though his eyes remained blank, Fullmetal released a tiny, involuntary shudder.

* * *

><p>"C'mon, Havoc, it could have been worse," said Breda.<p>

"How exactly?" Havoc slurred, briefly moving his glass from his swollen cheek to take a great gulp of his beer. "I barely say hello and she punches me!"

"Which is a terrible amount of restraint coming from Major General Armstrong," said Mustang from the opposite side of the table, taking a sip from his own drink.

"_That_ was Major General Armstrong?" Havoc looked like he wanted the floor to open and swallow him. Then, he jerked his head up and twisted in his seat to search the room wildly as though afraid the blonde general would reappear and finish the job. Their table in the back corner of the bar commanded a good view of the room – Breda's choice. But, there was no sign of the imposing woman.

"She left almost immediately after she punched you," Falman informed him helpfully.

"Armstrong?" Master Sergeant Fuery, the youngest of Mustang's group with a boyish face that only highlighted his youth, looked torn between curiosity and terror. "Like the Major?"

"His older sister," said Breda before turning to Mustang. "What's someone like her doing down here in Central? I thought she had command up at Fort Briggs?"

"She does." Mustang's gaze was thoughtful. "I suspect she's here to take stock of the political situation." He took another drink. "It's nice to have all my competition assembling themselves in one place. I wonder if they all frequent this bar?"

"Sir." Beside Mustang, Hawkeye sipped at her water. She was posing as the colonel's driver for the night. "Please be more careful with what you say." Like the others, she was dressed for a casual evening out. Her long, blonde hair was unbound and fell past her shoulders. But, her face was all business as she admonished her superior.

Mustang was unrepentant. "They're all thinking the same about me," he argued.

"Unlikely, Sir." A smile danced behind Hawkeye's brown eyes. "In your current position, you're probably not included in their calculations at all." Her eyes narrowed, serious now. "This gives you a tactical advantage so long as you avoid drawing attention to yourself."

But, Mustang was oblivious to her final words, having slumped to the tabletop. "Am I not a threat?" he murmured, staring into his glass bleakly. "Not even a little?"

Breda covered a snicker with his beer. Then, he sobered. Now that everyone had arrived, it was time to get some information out of the Colonel.

"So, heard from old man Grumman lately?" he asked.

Something in Mustang's shoulders tensed minutely. After a second's pause, he straightened and leaned back in his chair lazily.

"A week ago, actually. He sends his thanks for all that work you did on the east area project."

"Well, it took you long enough to deliver the message," said Breda. But, the words were without heat.

"As you know, we've been swamped." Mustang shrugged. "I haven't had a minute to spare on things like passing along polite nonsense to you clowns," he added.

"So, what was all that about?" asked Havoc as he put his drink down to light a cigarette. He hadn't worked on the project, but he knew it was somehow tied to the rare event that was Roy Mustang choosing the company of his subordinates over that of a woman for the evening.

"The general just wanted to verify some old data from the archives," said Mustang.

Breda nodded. "About thirty years back?"

"Around that, yes."

Pressing his cold beer against his swollen cheek once more, Havoc puffed on his cigarette and watched the two. Breda and the Colonel had a system. Breda would oh-so-casually ask all the right questions, and the Colonel would oh-so-lazily respond with vague answers. Havoc couldn't always follow these conversations. He wasn't clever like Breda or a walking encyclopedia like Falman. But, that was what poker night was for. Alone, without Mustang, who was more likely to be watched, Breda could bring them all up to speed without using word games. Still, the game was always fun to watch.

"Thirty years, that rings a bell," Breda drawled. He looked across the table at Falman. "Didn't we research something else from around then?"

"I believe that was when the State accepted the youngest alchemist on record," Falman answered. "Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist."

"Yeah, Fullmetal," said Breda. "The one with the automail, that got captured by Drachma. I wonder how he's doing these days."

Mustang sipped at his scotch. "It's my understanding that he's become quite the eccentric. I've met him. Rather entertaining really." He smirked. "Especially if you mention his height."

"His height?" Fuery asked.

Mustang held out a hand. "Shorter than even you, Master Sergeant. He's about, oh, this tall." Mustang's hand was indicating someone about four feet tall, if that. "Touchy about it too."

"If I was _that_ short, I would be too," Breda snorted. He had no doubt the Colonel was exaggerating.

"See, I was right," said Havoc suddenly, remembering their early morning discussion on Fullmetal nearly a month ago. "He _did_ pick a fight with a bear after thinking it called him short."

"Havoc, you aren't drunk enough for that to be funny yet."

"As I recall, Fullmetal has at least two automail prosthetics," Falman put in, serious as always. "And, he had them at twelve when he received his State certification." Falman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Automail is an incredible strain to put on a developing body. Especially the heavier models they had decades ago."

Mustang _had_ been joking, but Falman's words gave him pause. Yes, that had probably been a contributing factor in Fullmetal's stunted size. That plus ten years of malnourishment and beatings in Drachma starting when he was fifteen.

Something nagged at the back of his mind.

"_Tell the general he's a…_"

Now, there was an uncomfortable thought. He put it aside for later.

Looking past Breda, Mustang let his eyes wander over the busy bar. "Unfortunately, it seems like Fullmetal's in poor health at the moment."

"Shame," said Breda. "Know where to send flowers?"

"No, I didn't hear where he's staying."

"Mm." Breda flicked his eyes toward Hawkeye, who had been silent thus far. Like Mustang, she had chosen to sit facing the room. He caught her gaze for a minute, and she offered the tiniest of nods. Good. No trouble then. "So, since you've met him, what's Fullmetal up to these days?"

There was a sharpening in the Colonel's dark eyes. "Wild goose chases, the way I hear it," he said. "Digging up records of nearly legendary alchemic amplifiers, things like that."

Breda arched a brow. "The military actually spends money on that stuff?"

"Under the right circumstances, apparently so."

Beside Mustang, Hawkeye shifted in her seat. Taking the hint, Breda smoothly moved on to other things.

"Well, I wish they'd spend a little more money on practical things."

"Like some of the communications equipment." Fuery sighed. "I don't know how much longer I can keep some of the radios running with just scrap parts."

"And, getting some of the older records transcribed," said Falman. "A number of them are becoming illegible."

"And, serving beer in the mess hall," Havoc slurred around the beer against his cheek and the remains of his cigarette between his teeth.

"Havoc, that's still your first beer," said Breda, scowling. "Exactly how hard did the Major General hit you?"

Fuery thrust his hand toward Havoc. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

As Falman inserted a warning about concussions and the need to keep Havoc awake, Mustang tuned out their chatter and focused instead on the man who had just entered the bar. He easily recognized him as one of the two guards who had stood outside the study room day after day as he and Fullmetal read and bickered. And, who had collected and secured their findings, along with Parker's notes, day after day. He also recognized the sharp featured man standing and moving to greet him amicably.

"Hmm, it seems Major Archer is doing some fishing," he murmured.

* * *

><p>Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong listened to a stuttering soldier explain the destruction cutting across the street with thinly veiled disgust. Dressed in a long coat more suited to Briggs' frigid northern winters, she was the picture of poise despite Central's laughable idea of cold weather. At her side was a similarly dressed man with even more incongruent dark glasses despite the late hour. Olivier's pink lips curled as she looked past the harried soldier to survey the damage. The entire face of one building was so much rubble blocking both lanes of traffic. A bevy of soldiers and military police surrounded it. In particular, they were clustered around a specific patch of debris. A patch strewn with the remains of something rather less solid than a building. And, rather messier.<p>

"And, it looks like the fight ended when the Silver Alchemist, Giolio Comanche, was killed by Scar," the soldier stammered on, guessing the direction of her stare. Pointedly, he did not turn to look himself.

"Scar?" Olivier asked idly.

"An Ishvalan serial killer who's been targeting State Alchemists."

"Ishvalan…" For an instant, Olivier frowned. She could have sworn something had moved in the alleyway to her left. Ignoring it, she let her lips twist into a true sneer. "Hmph. If this is the quality of Amestris' famed 'human weapons', the Fuhrer-Elect is correct that they've outlived their usefulness." Yes, there was something there. She raised her voice slightly. "Soft weaklings, the lot of them. Like that so-called 'Hero of Ishval' I saw just tonight out carousing. Pathetic." She turned away, long coat snapping behind her. "Miles."

Her companion obediently fell into step beside her.

Olivier didn't look at him as she strode back the way she had come. "From the looks of it, this 'Scar' didn't take any damage from the fight," she said quietly. "He may be searching for another target." Now, her lips lifted in a grim smile. "That upstart Mustang should have had his fill and be heading home soon, don't you think?"

* * *

><p>Having refused a number of well-meaning suggestions that he head home early, Havoc was now well and truly drunk. In fact, he was drunk enough that no one could tell if he had recovered from the Major General's punch or not. Considering his condition, Falman and Fuery offered to walk him back to his place. The directions he gave them were dubious at best – "Fi' blocksh pas' th' fish n' a left at th' green horse. Shecond 'partment buildin'." But, Falman, with his incredible memory for details, seemed to have correctly interpreted "fish" as the logo of another pub and "green horse" as a statue of General Benjamin Avro astride his horse commissioned to commemorate the Battle of Cameron two hundred years ago. Or something like that. Mustang had to admit that Falman's encyclopedic recitations made even his eyes glaze over.<p>

At any rate, the three were the first to leave. A half hour later, with a weather eye trained on Archer, Mustang was ostensibly engrossed in an argument with Breda over the merits of chess versus the Eastern variant, shogi.

"But, in shogi, when you capture pawns, you can turn around and use them again as your own," Breda argued.

"That's exactly what I don't like about it," Mustang countered. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the guard Archer had been speaking to was leaving and Archer himself seemed to be preparing to make his exit. "In chess, captured pawns are captured and out of play, not turned into nasty little surprises to use against your opponent later." He thumped his fist on the table for emphasis. "It's more honest."

"Nothing fair in love and war, you know," said Breda with a smirk.

Mustang growled at him and half-rose.

Hawkeye caught his sleeve. "Sir, if you're ready to leave, I'll go start the car." She stood, gathering her purse, and nodded to Breda. "I'll see you Monday, 2nd Lieutenant." Then, her brown eyes locked with Mustang's. "I'll bring the car around in ten minutes, Sir. If I find that you've slipped out with one of the waitresses, I will be cross."

And, no one liked to see Hawkeye cross. Her purse was just large enough to conceal a handgun, and there was little doubt that it was her only one.

Mustang nodded and offered her a charming false smile. "I'll behave myself, Lieutenant."

"See that you do."

Then, Hawkeye was gone, threading her way through the thinning crowd.

Mustang turned to Breda with a look of utmost seriousness. "2nd Lieutenant, procure me a waitress immediately," he said in his best command voice.

Across the room, he could see Archer casting him a considering look, but the man quickly turned away with a smirk and moved for the door.

The corners of Breda's lips twitched. "I'm sorry, Sir, but I make it a point not to accept suicide missions."

"This isn't the Aqua Fortis; the waitresses here are quite friendly."

"It's not the waitresses I'm afraid of."

Mustang stared at the stocky man intently. "Does this mean you're disobeying a direct order, 2nd Lieutenant?" he asked softly.

"'Fraid so."

The two stared at one another for a long minute.

Mustang laughed first. Then, he stood, wobbling slightly. "Well, as I'm also not feeling suicidal, I'd better meet the 1st Lieutenant before she decides I've disobeyed _her_ orders."

Breda grinned. "I always knew I had a smart commanding officer."

Mustang let out another short laugh and, tossing up a hand, turned to go.

A few minutes later, all semblance of drunken mirth was gone from Mustang's face as he slid into the backseat of his military issued car.

"Major Archer and 1st Lieutenant Gloster rendezvoused outside the pub and headed down Fifth," Hawkeye reported.

"As I expected," Mustang murmured. "Take the next turn and then pull over, Lieutenant. It seems I'll have to do some footwork."

Hawkeye did as he asked, but a worried frown settled on her face. "Are you sure about this, Sir?" she asked, taking the turn he had indicated. "There _is_ still a murderer on the loose."

"I'm prepared for that contingency," he said.

She saw a flash of white in the rearview mirror and realized that he was tugging off his plain white gloves and tucking them into a pocket of his long coat. In their place, he pulled on a nearly identical pair. Identical save for the telltale red circles sewn onto the backs. Circles enclosing a pattern of triangles where the alchemical symbol for air surrounded that for fire.

Knowing there would be no argument, Hawkeye pulled the car up to the curb and cut the engine. Then, passing a hand over the thigh holster concealed under her skirt, she reached for her purse.

"I'm coming with you." And, from her tone, it was clear that there would be no arguing with her either.

* * *

><p>The military police had been faster this time. Probably because of the building collapse. No matter. The alchemist was dead. And, the world was better for the loss of the arrogant fool. Proud veteran of the massacre of Ishval, wholly dependent on his infallible alchemy. And, for all his showy moves, infinitely predictable.<p>

Concealed, he had lingered as the destruction drew soldiers and bystanders alike. It must have been Ishvala's guidance. Because, as he watched, a loud blonde woman in the blue of the Amestrian military proper had given him an unexpected boon.

Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, who had left nothing but ash and death in his path through Ishval. He was nearby and probably incapacitated from drunken revelry. And, the bar district was only a few blocks away.

It was the perfect opportunity.

His efforts had been rewarded, he mused, hours later, as he watched a man with night dark hair and white gloves slip out of his car and begin walking down the street on foot. Truly, Ishvala was delivering the murderers of Ishval into his hand tonight.

Still… Red eyes flicked to the grim-faced blonde woman at Mustang's side. He would be patient, cautious. There was no need to rush.

He clenched his right fist.

He would be patient, but he would not rest until he had avenged his people.

* * *

><p>As businesses and apartments gave way to warehouses, Mustang grew wary of Archer's intentions. The streets here were poorly lit and devoid of life. It was the perfect place for a covert meeting, yes. It was also the perfect place to dispose of an informant who had outlived his usefulness. Or a shadow that had grown annoying.<p>

Of course, Mustang's lips tightened in a grim smile, either attempt would neatly remove Archer from the game. Because he was no ordinary shadow.

Unfortunately, in that moment of confidence, Mustang forgot the third thing that a dark and deserted street was perfect for: an ambush.

Fortunately, Hawkeye did not.

When the large man lunged out of the alleyway, arm outstretched, she was already in motion. As her hand wrapped around the familiar weight of the gun in her purse, her foot swept out and caught Mustang's legs. With an undignified yelp, he tumbled backward. A hand crackling with the unmistakable light of alchemy missed his head by inches.

It wouldn't get a second chance.

Hawkeye brought the gun to bear and fired off three shots in quick succession.

But, the large man had already recovered from his failed lunge and was dodging away.

"_Fast_," Hawkeye thought to herself, tracking him as he retreated into the alley.

Hair rose on the back of her neck as she lined up a shot. Something in the atmosphere had changed. Her finger froze on the trigger, waiting.

There was a sharp snap from the ground to her right. With a rush of igniting gases, the alleyway just behind the attacker was suddenly ablaze.

Hawkeye held the gun steady, keeping her eyes trained on the big man now clearly outlined by the fire's light. He hadn't flinched at the sudden fireball either. He stood, resolute, watching, calculating.

"I advise you give up," said Mustang. Ignoring the stinging pain in his backside, he climbed to his feet, left hand in the air, poised to snap again. "You've lost the element of surprise. And, there's nowhere to run."

For a long moment, the only sound was the roar of the alchemically fueled flames.

"Roy Mustang." When the man spoke, it was in a deep voice devoid of emotion. "The Flame Alchemist." He raised his right hand. "For your crimes in Ishval, I shall bring judgment upon you."

Mustang started.

_Ishval._

"You're—!"

"Scar, correct?" a new voice cut in. "I've been looking for you."

Mustang risked a quick glance to the left of Hawkeye, catching sight of Amestrian blue and long, blonde hair. His eyes widened.

Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong kept her sidearm trained on the scarred man while her left hand rested on the hilt of her sword.

"How nice of you to take the bait I provided," she continued.

"Bait?" Mustang murmured.

Olivier's lips twitched. "I thought he might be skulking around the scene of his last attack, so I mentioned that a certain alchemist might be wandering around, too drunk to defend himself." Her eyes flicked toward Mustang. "I see I wasn't far off."

It took a moment for the statement to click.

"_What?_" Mustang yelled. "You used me as _bait_?"

He knew he shouldn't be surprised. The woman sometimes called "the Northern Cliff of Briggs" was known for her ruthlessness.

"A State Alchemist should be more than capable of defending himself," said Olivier. "Or are you all as useless as I've heard?"

Mustang's face slid into its usual impassive mask. "Apparently, _I_, at least, have my uses," he said smoothly, pointedly gesturing to himself with his gloved right hand. "And, sometimes, bait bites back."

The wall of fire behind Scar was still under his control. Careful modulation of the alley's oxygen levels kept the fire at a slow but intimidating burn. And, just a thought could intensify it.

Olivier sniffed. Then, her attention turned to Scar.

"Well, it seems there's nowhere left for you to run," she said. "You can surrender or fight." Ice blue eyes narrowed. "It makes no difference to me. The outcome will be the same."

Scar regarded the three figures facing him. Mustang had never stopped watching him, not even while screeching at the loud female officer. And, unnatural eddies still twisted around him, fanning the flames at his back. The Flame Alchemist was still using his accursed alchemy. And, he was prepared now.

The women were dangerous. He had no doubt both would shoot him and that their aim would be deadly. But, it was the alchemist, known for his explosive, long distance attacks, that was the real danger. He weighed his options.

A shadow flickered in front of him. Not from the flames. From above.

Decision made for him, Scar swung his right arm toward the nearest wall.

"Don't—!" Hawkeye's finger squeezed the trigger.

"Miles!" Olivier shouted, firing her own sidearm.

The wall nearest Scar exploded as his hand connected.

Mustang swore and snapped again, sending a burst of fire into the debris. But, as the flames shone through the cloud of dust, it was obvious that Scar was gone.

"Miles!" Olivier barked again.

A figure appeared on the rooftop to the left of the alley. "No sign of him, Ma'am!" he called. Lifting his tinted glasses, he searched the interior of the damaged building, dimly illuminated by the flames. "There's a hole in the floor. It looks like he went into the sewers."

"Tch!" Olivier cautiously made her way to the alley. She could hear Mustang and his lieutenant falling in behind her.

Stepping over the rubble that had once been a sizable portion of the building's wall, she peered into the darkened room beyond. Miles had been correct. The room Scar had blasted his way into, some sort of storage area, was empty save for debris, scattered crates, and a gaping hole in the floor. Olivier contemplated it for a moment. But, with no lights, they were ill-equipped to give chase.

Grimacing, she stepped back and looked to Mustang. "I trust you know who to contact in Investigations?" she asked. "For all the good it will do."

"I'll inform them," said Mustang. A sudden thought occurred to him. "Since I _did_ play my part quite well, might I ask a favor?"

Olivier treated him to a level look that she probably used when deciding if a passing insect was worth the trouble of squashing.

"Just a piece of trivia I've been investigating," Mustang continued. "I was wondering if there were any records in Briggs of a State Alchemist being taken captive by Drachman forces near the border? It would have been before your time," he added quickly. It wasn't an empty boast that no live Drachman had set foot over the border since an Armstrong had held command in Briggs. "Around thirty years ago."

"Hmph." Olivier turned away. "You alchemists really are a useless lot." With that, she strode away, raising an arm to signal her subordinate on the rooftop.

Mustang and Hawkeye were left standing in the street, flames slowly dying behind them, Archer and his informant long gone. Still, a tiny smile flickered at the corners of the colonel's mouth.

* * *

><p>Yes, there was a reference to canon events in there. No, you don't have to pay attention to the chessshogi debate, but it's fun if you think about it. And, Mustang and crew are so much fun to write.

Kudos to SageSK for the name Aqua Fortis.


	9. Book 2: Chapter 9: I Want to Know

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> May 18, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Nothing this chapter.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> And, the research resumes. As always, thanks to everyone reading!

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 9: I Want to Know What's Going On**

Darkness. Deep and cold and broken only by echoes.

It was familiar. He had been here before. Perhaps he had always been here.

He wasn't sure.

But, it was familiar.

It was dark and empty, but not empty. He was alone, but not alone.

Because there were others all around him. They were unseen, intangible. But, he could hear them. Hear the whispers in the darkness.

"_So long._"

"_Waiting._"

"_So long._"

"_He promised._"

"_Save us._"

"_Free us._"

"_All trapped._"

"_Waiting so long._"

"_Waiting._"

He wondered what they meant. What they were waiting for. Was _he_ waiting for something?

He wasn't sure.

"_Remember._"

Louder now. Were they speaking to him?

He tried to find words to ask.

"_You? Me?_"

Words were hard.

"_Yes._"

But, he must have made himself understood.

"_Remember._"

"_You remember._"

But, he didn't. He didn't remember anything.

"_Remember?_" he asked.

An excited murmur answered him, too fast and muddled for him to comprehend. Then, the murmur rose into a sudden roar.

"_Remember!_"

"_Don't forget!_"

"_Don't lose!_"

"_Remember!_"

He was sent reeling, confused and hurting. It was too much, too loud! And, worse, the voices sounded upset now. Were they angry with him?

"_I…_ _Sorry?_" he managed.

"_No. No, sorry._"

The voices quieted.

"_Just remember._"

"_Please._"

"_Don't forget._"

"_Remember, Ed._"

* * *

><p>"Well?" General Grand thrust himself into the tiny examining room, making it suddenly even smaller.<p>

Its two occupants were oblivious. They stood side by side, opposites. One young and old and small in clothes too big for him, staring vacantly at nothing. The other unquestionably ancient and stout with a frame little diminished by the years, smiling pleasantly.

"He's hiding from me again," the old man said, never losing his smile. "It's uncanny how he does that." He tugged at his moustache as he regarded his silent companion. "Really quite the challenge, this brat."

"So, you haven't gotten anything out of him." Grand's face was a mass of knotted muscles.

"Mmm." The old man shrugged. "It's not that he _won't_ say anything about the Stone. He'll do whatever you ask." The old man snapped his fingers in front of the other's face. "Fullmetal, sit."

Wordlessly, Fullmetal moved from the old man's side to sit in the room's single wooden chair.

"See? Perfect. My best work." The old man grinned over at Fullmetal before looking at Grand again. "The problem is that he _can't_ say anything about the Stone. Puts him right back into that seizure. I didn't even bother trying since you've already proven that hasn't changed."

"Didn't bother—?" Grand clenched his fists. "I told you to get the information on the Philosopher's Stone!"

The old man was unperturbed. "And, I'm telling you it won't work that way," he said. "Frankly, you already got further than I thought possible." His smile widened. "Clever method really. Shame you had to go and rush things."

Grand ground his teeth together at the thinly disguised jab.

"Still," the man continued, "my advice is to try again. Fullmetal here tends to lose time before and after his 'episodes'. Just recreate the scenario from before."

Slowly, Grand let his fury ebb away. He had been close, and he still had his trump card. Fullmetal was functional, if damaged, and the ruse _had_ worked. He could start again. He had the notes, and, with the decoding Fullmetal had already done, he might even find another alchemist who could crack the last code.

"Do you still have that little black notebook they confiscated?" the old man asked suddenly.

"Yes." Grand's smile was slow in coming, but all the more terrible for it. "Yes, that would work nicely."

* * *

><p>"And then, she thanked Scar for taking the 'bait'!" said Mustang, slapping his hands down on Hughes' desk.<p>

"Let me guess what – no, _who_ – the bait was." Hughes' grin was growing by the minute as Mustang related his story.

Mustang scowled. "It's not like I was helpless!"

"Because you had Hawkeye there to save your neck."

"That's not—"

"Excuse me. Colonel?" Mustang turned to find Fuery standing in the doorway. "General Grand wants to see you," he said breathlessly. It was clear he had run all the way to the Investigations Department

"General Grand?" Mustang repeated blankly.

"Yes, Sir." Fuery nodded. "He came by about twenty minutes ago and said for you to meet him in the National Library immediately."

Mustang barely concealed his surprise before nodding. "Very well then. Thank you, Master Sergeant."

As Fuery left, Mustang turned back to Hughes. His friend was watching him with a thoughtful look.

"Old man Grand's looking for you again?"

"So, it would seem." Mustang moved toward the door but paused at the threshold. "Has the Fullmetal Alchemist's file re-surfaced by any chance?"

"Nope," said Hughes. "Sergeant Ryan in Records isn't happy about it either."

"I'd imagine not." Mustang took on a thoughtful air. "Would someone rescued from a Drachman prison have a file in Investigations as well?"

"Most likely. Not in this division though," said Hughes. "Probably over in Sunderland's department." Hughes frowned. "You know, I haven't spoken to him in ages. Which means he hasn't seen Elicia in her sundress!"

"A travesty, I'm sure," said Mustang with a small smile.

"I should go visit him at lunch!" Hughes proclaimed. "The sight of my Elicia is sure to brighten his day!"

"You do that." Still smiling, Mustang took his leave.

The smile faded as he contemplated what was waiting for him at the library. Grand certainly. Probably Fullmetal as well. But, in what state? And, for what purpose? A new "lead" on the Philosopher's Stone?

Mustang increased his pace. He doubted he would like them, but he wanted answers.

* * *

><p>When he arrived at the library, the study room was just as he had seen it last, minus the over-turned chair. The same two guards were stationed at the door – Gloster looking none the worse for wear after his meeting with Archer. Both as stoically professional as ever. Notes were already spread on the room's single table. Fullmetal's transmuted monstrosity was even still in attendance against the far wall. Which made Mustang privately vow to claim the proper chair for his own if he had to pull rank to do so. But, it was a fleeting thought.<p>

Because waiting for him just within the door was General Grand. The general's face was set in its default frown, but there was a curious satisfaction about him.

Mustang quickly decided that he didn't like it. Good. His hunches were again being vindicated.

"There you are, Mustang," said Grand. "As you can tell, you'll be re-starting this project. Fullmetal is back in full health, and I have some new material for you."

He half-turned, giving Mustang his first glimpse of Fullmetal since that morning two weeks ago. The gray-haired alchemist was seated in the remaining chair. His skin was sallow. Dark bags hung under his eyes, accented by the curve of his glasses. He made no acknowledgement of Mustang's presence. Not even the faintest scowl of annoyance. Instead, he stared emptily ahead at nothing in particular.

Clearly, the general subscribed to his own definition of "full health".

With effort, Mustang kept his face neutral.

"New material, Sir?" he asked.

"Yes." Grand reached to pull something from the inner pocket of his uniform jacket. "Given the extensive decoys built into the code, this may prove more useful." He produced a small, leatherbound notebook. Its cover was cracked and stained, the pages rounded at the corners with age. There was little doubt as to its origins.

"Sir, this is—"

"Parker's original notes," said Grand. "The other was one of several copies printed during the initial investigation. These notes have been studied as well, of course. But," Grand glanced toward the silent Fullmetal, "you two have already uncovered more than they ever did." He pressed the notebook into Mustang's hands. "I'll be expecting progress reports every other day, Colonel. Everything else will be just as before."

Fullmetal's face was still impassive, empty.

"Sir," Mustang dared at last, "is Elric fit for duty again? He—"

Grand cut him off with an impatient sweep of his hand. "The doctors cleared him," he snapped. "His condition is a by-product of the fit and the drugs they gave him. It will pass."

"About the... fit… Are there any warning signs I should know of?"

Grand treated Mustang to a measuring look. "No," he said after a moment. "That was my carelessness. If questioned too heavily, Fullmetal tends to have fits. The doctors claim it's a side effect of his time in Drachma."

It made a deeply unpleasant sort of sense. It also highlighted why Fullmetal had no business here. Especially not in his current condition.

"But, if he's still—"

"I'll remind you, Mustang," Grand growled, "that time is shorter than ever. Lockheed will formally assume command in a month, and he's already stirring up things in the assembly." Grand's voice dropped. "Ishval has been mentioned more than once."

Ah, the man had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

"I understand, Sir," said Mustang.

Best to let Grand believe his threats were effective.

"Good." Grand moved to the door. "I'll leave you two to work then. You should find all of your notes from before on the table. Fullmetal," he leveled a glare on the diminutive alchemist, "crack this code. That's an order."

There was a visible twitch from Fullmetal, and he raised his head slightly. "Yes, Sir," he said in a voice devoid of inflection.

Mustang felt something cold slither down his spine.

Then, Grand was gone, and they were alone.

Warily, Mustang crossed to the table.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" he asked Fullmetal quietly.

"Yes, Sir."

"Sir? My, I seem to have come up in the world," said Mustang, allowing himself a small smile. "Previously, I believe I was 'Colonel Smug'."

"I apologize for the disrespect, Sir."

Mustang kept his smile only with effort. "No… It was fine."

Then, he moved to collect the ghastly transmuted chair and pull it over to the table. As he took a seat and opened the battered notebook, Mustang thought that he had never so badly wanted to be disrespected.

* * *

><p>Several hours later, Mustang found himself debating the merits of shaking his largely silent companion. At the least, it would make him feel better.<p>

The handwritten notebook had offered up no secrets deeper than the fact that its original owner had had terrible penmanship. Which prompted the question of if the copy had been accurately transcribed.

So, Mustang had given the notebook to Fullmetal. The general could continue to play his little games, but Mustang was confident in his belief that the notes were Fullmetal's, written in the youth he could no longer remember. So, he instructed the older alchemist to read from the notebook while he followed along in the copy. Fullmetal had obeyed without comment, reading in a halting monotone.

It was a painful and useless exercise.

The printed copy was accurate so far as he and Fullmetal could tell. The original had some odd ink marks, but they appeared to be the product of the pen dragging across the paper rather than a deliberate effort. Fullmetal had little to say when he pointed them out, at any rate. Of course, Mustang was privately amazed that Fullmetal could even read clearly in his current state.

He was just making a note to re-visit the issue later when here was a knock at the door. Mustang looked up in surprise as the guards entered with their lunches. It was noon already then. And, it was meatloaf day in the mess hall from the look – and smell – of things.

He moved to take his lunch from Gloster. Fullmetal remained motionless as Boulton set his tray in front of him. His empty stare seemed to spook the younger officer, who hastily backed away.

As the two guards retreated out the door, Mustang took an experimental bite of his meatloaf, watching Fullmetal out of the corner of his eye. The gray-haired alchemist was looking at his tray as though trying to remember what to do with it. Or as though hoping it would transform into something palatable.

There was a thought. But, to transmute the meatloaf, they would first need to know what it was made of. And, that was a mystery every soldier in Central had yet to solve.

Of course, thanks to Havoc, Mustang knew most of the popular theories. The chain-smoking lieutenant especially delighted in telling young recruits that everyone knew the army was efficient, right? And, Central had a maximum security prison, right? Well, where did you think the death row inmates went?

Fuery had been green for a full day after hearing that one.

In light of that, Mustang elected not to mention it to Fullmetal just to fish for a response. Instead, he chose a safer option.

"Not hungry?"

Fullmetal glanced up at him and then back at the tray.

"No, Sir." He studied the tray for a few seconds, frowning faintly. "No. I need to eat."

With that, his face smoothed back into its expressionless mask. Then, collecting his fork, Fullmetal began methodically eating everything on his tray, meatloaf included.

The afternoon was no less frustrating. Fullmetal remained silent unless directly addressed. The notes remained inscrutable.

As they gathered the notes at the end of the day, Mustang found himself dreading his first report to Grand. For a distraction, he glanced across the table at Fullmetal. The gray-haired alchemist was carefully cleaning off the lens of his glasses with a handkerchief. It reminded Mustang of the identical pair of glasses still in his possession.

"Ah, that's right," he said. "Fullmetal." He waited for the other man to look at him. "I still have a pair of your glasses from when we worked together before. I'll bring them next time."

"Before..." A tiny frown crossed Fullmetal's impassive face. But, it faded quickly, and he nodded. "Thank you, Sir."

He did not ask about the coat. And, for the moment, Mustang did not mention it.

Grand arrived shortly thereafter to collect Fullmetal. If he had any comments on their progress - or lack thereof - he did not make them. Instead, he gruffly addressed Fullmetal.

"Any problems, Fullmetal?"

"No, Sir."

"No headaches, none of the... _other_ nonsense?"

"No, Sir."

"Good."

Then, Grand was bundling Fullmetal out the door, guiding him along with a hand as though he were a child. Or a marionette.

Mustang pressed his lips into a thin line. Fullmetal was the key to this mystery. Whatever secrets the notes contained - if any at all - were somewhere in Fullmetal's tortured, amnesiac mind. The Drachmans had tried to pry them out with force and, if Fullmetal's final invective last month was any indication, General Grand had tried the same.

Perhaps it was time for something more subtle.

* * *

><p>Mustang just managed to make it back to his office in time to catch Breda as he was leaving.<p>

"Breda," he waved the heavyset lieutenant back into the office with him, "I have an assignment for you."

Breda arched a brow. "Will I like it or hate it?"

Mustang smiled. "That depends on how you feel about the cuisine in the east."

"This is about that conman, isn't it?"

"Well, he's been quite a nuisance, and I'm sure Lieutenant General Northrop would be pleased if we could round him up with a minimum of fuss." Mustang's smile was all shadows and secrets now. "I'm going to be on another assignment again for a while, but I trust you can handle this." Stepping to his desk, he dug through the pile of folders stacked there and produced the one concerning the wayward conman. "I want you to start in East City and see what you can find."

Breda's smile was a mirror of Mustang's now. "Mmm, good thing I've studied up on the eastern region recently."

"Convenient, isn't it?" Mustang's face grew serious. "See if you can't root this one out for me, 2nd Lieutenant."

Breda saluted.

* * *

><p>Having given Breda his new assignment, Mustang changed into his casual clothes and set out on a mission of his own. It was time to drop in on Mr. Snow again.<p>

The Central Tribune building was filled with the usual bustle and roar of busy men and machines. And, as always, Lucius Snow was hard at work setting type, his faithful cat curled up nearby. Mustang wondered that the animal hadn't gone deaf with the racket. But, whether it could hear him coming or just possessed some bizarre feline sixth sense, the cat once more stood and meowed as he approached.

"Sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Snow," Mustang greeted as the old man turned to face him.

"No trouble at all," said Snow with a wide smile. "So, you're back to look up some more on the Fullmetal boy?"

Mustang grinned lightly. "I'm hoping to."

Snow waved a hand toward a door to the left of his linotype machine. "You'll want to check the archives then. Start with the table by the door. I pulled the dates and headlines I remembered for you and left them there."

"Thank you," said Mustang, giving the old man a brief, genuine smile. "Again, sorry to bother you."

"Oh, I enjoyed re-reading them myself," Snow assured him. "Just mind the dust," he called as Mustang turned and moved toward the door.

"_Mind the dust is an understatement,_" thought Mustang as he opened the door bearing the nameplate "Archives" to be met by a wave of choking, musty air. Flipping the light switch, he found a long, narrow room filled almost entirely by shelves piled high with moldering newspapers. He stepped inside and shut the door before turning his attention to the small table just to the right of it.

As Snow had promised, a stack of papers was waiting for him there. All were neatly laid open to whatever page contained a mention of Fullmetal. Clearly, even the exploits of a popular alchemist weren't front page news. Except one. On the bottom of the stack, he found a paper bearing the bold headline, "_State Accepts Youngest Alchemist Ever!_"

Mustang smirked slightly as he read the accompanying article. Ah, the Amestrian military propaganda machine at its finest. The article was a veritable ode to the State Alchemists program, praising the brilliant young lad who, even at such a tender age, wanted to serve his country. Not to mention the praises for the Fuhrer and his generals who had had the foresight to recruit the young genius on the spot so that his talents might be "nurtured" under the military's guidance. And, of course, such a young boy wouldn't be called upon for active combat. Oh, no! He would be traveling and researching, growing in skill until he reached his majority.

"Or until they could figure out how he transmuted without a circle at his assessment," Mustang muttered cynically as he pulled a rickety chair from its place under the table and settled himself into it. If Fullmetal really had been capable of such, of course they wouldn't put him in the line of fire. If there was any chance the skill was not an elaborate trick _and_ duplicable, he would have been far too valuable to lose until it could be studied.

Which made it a wonder they hadn't kept the boy closer. Judging by the other articles and Fullmetal's file – back before it had gone AWOL - he had wandered the country quite freely.

Turning his attention to the accounts of said wanderings, Mustang set the glut of purple prose aside. He quickly found that the other articles were written in a far more utilitarian fashion and were far more informative.

"_Fullmetal Alchemist Uncovers Corruption in Youswell_"

Fullmetal's first official assignment had been a routine inspection at the Youswell coal mine. A routine inspection that somehow turned into exposing the local military authority and mine owner, one Lieutenant Yoki, as corrupt and incompetent. It had also somehow ended in the miners coming into ownership of the mine, but the newspaper wasn't clear on exactly how _that_ happened.

Then, there was "_Xenotime Credits Prosperity to Fullmetal Alchemist_".

That one was little more than a blurb about how the one-time gold rush town of Xenotime credited Fullmetal for helping them turn their focus from the vanished gold reserves onto agriculture. There was a quote from a local alchemist named Russell Tringham who said, "All we needed was a little push in the right direction. Elric was the little push."

Interesting choice of words. Idly, Mustang wondered if Tringham was still alive. They could take turns and see how many short jokes it took to bring the old grouch back. It would be fun.

Not as much fun as it would have been when Fullmetal was a teenager though. According to the Central Tribune, at least one town square had been destroyed in some sort of brawl that had involved a perceived slight against Fullmetal's stature. And, that wasn't counting several dozen eating establishments, a train car and Southern HQ's men's bathroom. All later repaired with alchemy, of course.

Mustang shuffled through more articles detailing how Fullmetal repaired a bridge here, insulted a general there. Really, it was a wonder he hadn't been either court-martialed or finally caught in a dark alley.

At last, he reached the final article Snow had been able to find – the one concerning the incident with Cornello. "Father Cornello" apparently. Priest of the sun god Leto, a religion he had created out of whole cloth and spread among the population of Liore by performing "miracles" with the aid of alchemy.

"Liore…" Mustang frowned. He couldn't send anyone to Liore. Not and find anything meaningful. Liore, once a thriving frontier town on the edge of the eastern desert, was now nothing but a wasteland. There had been an uprising of some sort, and the military had deployed troops to suppress it. And then, there had been the accident. A munitions explosion, the Bradley administration had claimed. Rumor said alchemy. Alchemy worse than anything used in Ishval. Liore was gone. The soldiers were gone. Purportedly, there had been no witnesses. But, a second wave of troops still mobilizing in Ishval, as well as a number of civilians, had reported seeing a red light in the sky. When the additional troops arrived in Liore, there were no survivors.

"This Cornello had an amplifier," Mustang murmured to himself. He never put much stock in rumors. But, alchemy, even without the aid of an amplifier, could be as dangerous in the hands of an amateur as when used by a combat-trained State Alchemist. And, far less predictable. "Could he…" Mustang shook his head. "No, Fullmetal's report said his amplifier was destroyed."

He cast about in his memory for exactly when it was that Liore itself had been destroyed. Around thirty years ago, but….

"You've got to be kidding me," he hissed, realizing.

Quickly, he read the remainder of the article. But, it only described how Fullmetal had exposed Cornello for the fraud he was. There was nothing about Cornello's amplifier or his eventual fate.

"However…"

Checking the date, Mustang stood and moved to the shelves. After a few minutes' searching, he located the papers from the days following the account of Fullmetal in Liore. Then, in a paper dated a month later, he found what he was looking for.

"_Violence Erupts in Liore!_"

Eyes widening, Mustang read how Cornello's remaining supporters had clashed with those disillusioned by Fullmetal's revelation. How the violence had escalated to the point that Eastern Command sent troops to restore order.

"This is—!"

He reached for the next paper and the next, scanning the headlines.

"_Disaster in Liore!_"

And, above the headline was the date – July 1884. The same month Fullmetal had disappeared.

"In Drachma," Mustang reminded himself.

But, he didn't remember the exact date Fullmetal was listed as officially MIA. And, it took less than a week to reach the Drachman border from the east, even as far out as Liore.

Powerful alchemy might have destroyed Liore.

And, there was nothing more powerful, in reality or legend, than the Philosopher's Stone.

* * *

><p>I'm betting a lot of readers' theories just got vindicated, didn't they? And, shame Havoc wasn't around thirty years ago. The man might be on to something.<p> 


	10. Book 2: Chapter 10: What's This

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> May 25, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Some mild violence.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I'm going to thank everyone who has commented again because you guys are really, really amazing. I don't think I've ever gotten such detailed feedback!

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 10: What's This Holding Me?**

"_Remember._"

Again. They said they weren't angry with him, but whenever the voices actually deigned to address him, they always had that same demand. Remember, remember, remember!

What was he supposed to remember? Memory was nothing but scattered points of light in the darkness. Fragments of a world and a life that were foreign to him. His world was a void. There was nothing. It had always been nothing. It would always be nothing.

"_Remember._"

But, it was a constricting nothing. It was small for all its emptiness and somehow suffocating. Like the bottom of a deep pit. He was trapped. And, alone.

"_Remember._"

And, yet, there was something…. He thought he could leave this world. Leave and go to where the voices were.

"_Remember._"

Because they were with him and not. There and not there. Heard but not seen.

He wanted to change that, to join them.

"_Remember._"

He thought he knew the way now. There was something like a light in the distance. A warm, beckoning red glow. He just had to reach it.

* * *

><p>The orders were normal enough. Even routine now. They had spent most of their careers guarding either officers needing some accompanying muscle or officers under investigation. It was a job for which they were well-suited. It was just the subject of their latest assignment that made it unusual.<p>

"You knock."

The blond, bespectacled Heinkel regarded his partner with narrowed eyes. "Why me?"

"I'll deal with him if he pulls something cute again," the dark-haired Darius answered. "You knock. He gives me the creeps."

Heinkel debated his options, but decided the deal was fair and turned to knock on the simple, unassuming door. Truth be told, their charge gave him the creeps too. And, had ever since that first morning General Grand had ordered them to start escorting the man.

It was an irrational fear. He was only a washed up State Alchemist who stood barely half their height.

But, that was the thing. He was a _State Alchemist_. Washed up or not and whatever their stature, State Alchemists were all weird and potentially dangerous. They were the military's famed "human weapons", after all, they and their inhuman abilities. This one, however… It was different. There was something _wrong_ with the Fullmetal Alchemist.

The door opened after the second knock, and Heinkel looked down to regard his charge.

Empty yellow eyes set in a pale face devoid of expression looked back.

"I'm ready," Fullmetal said without preamble.

Heinkel had drawn away involuntarily, and the smaller man used the space to step out and turn to lock his door. Heinkel watched in silence, shooting a look back to his partner. Darius' face, naturally prone to scowls, was pulled down into an especially ferocious one. Likely thinking the same thing he was.

Fullmetal looked like the walking dead. Whoever had let him out of the hospital in this condition was a quack. Or acting under orders. As were they.

Fullmetal turned to face them again. He said nothing, just waited expectantly.

No help for it then.

Heinkel cut his partner a second look. It was obvious that nothing "cute" was going to happen today. But, they had a deal.

With a huff, Darius stepped up to address Fullmetal.

"Come on then, Elric," he said. "Time to get you to the library."

Fullmetal just nodded.

* * *

><p>"What does it all mean?"<p>

Roy Mustang had had a bad night. With what he had learned, sleep had not come easily. His head had been too busy spinning in circles. He had left the Central Tribune building with a whole new set of puzzle pieces that clearly matched the picture he was assembling but just as clearly didn't quite fit.

Liore might have been destroyed by alchemy around the time Fullmetal went MIA. The Philosopher's Stone or an amplifier of sufficient power could potentially fuel such destruction. Grand believed Fullmetal was the key to creating a Philosopher's Stone. Which meant he also believed the Philosopher's Stone was more than just a myth. And, he believed it so fiercely there must be some solid evidence to support that belief. Like the destruction of Liore.

"But, there's no evidence _Fullmetal_ was anywhere near Liore when it happened."

Mustang hissed as the hasty snarl made him nick his cheek with the razor. Well, verbalizing his thoughts was doubly unwise then. Still, it was true. Fullmetal had left Liore months before its destruction. But, it was also true that he was the alchemist to report Cornello's amplifier. An amplifier that had been interesting enough to catch the eye of specialist Ulrich Parker.

Assuming Parker was real, of course. But, he was fairly sure that Grand hadn't created Parker, just mixed his work with Fullmetal's to preserve the illusion.

So, was Fullmetal merely the last person to examine an amplifier Cornello might have later reproduced? Or was the account that the amplifier was destroyed a lie? And, if the latter, why?

Mustang's eyes narrowed as he set the razor down and turned on the tap. Based on what he had read, anti-military sentiment had been rampant in Liore. Before the end, the conflict had had all the signs of blossoming into a true revolt. Like Ishval.

The military had resorted to terrible measures to "pacify" Ishval.

It was hard to imagine that the broken Fullmetal Alchemist could have been involved in such a thing. Or maybe it was all too easy.

Because there were still nights when he found himself back in that makeshift clinic in Ishval. When the report of his service revolver firing two, distinct shots still echoed in his head. When he could still feel the warmth of the revolver's muzzle pressed under his chin.

Orders were orders. And, the "Hero of Ishval" was in no position to cast stones.

"Roy! Roooooy!"

Mustang paused, shaving cream still coating one cheek, and cut off the tap to better hear the incessant knocking at his door. Hmm… It was doing the rhythm to the Amestrian national anthem now. Badly.

"Hughes," Mustang muttered. Then, he raised his voice to call, "In a minute!"

As he resumed cleaning off the shaving cream, Mustang wondered what had brought Hughes to his apartment. Visits before work meant leaving early, which was time spent away from his family. Hughes did not choose time away from family lightly.

Mustang reached for his towel. "Which means it's either the Scar case or—"

"My, this place does need a woman's touch, doesn't it?"

The towel flopped to the floor.

"Hughes!" Mustang glared at his shamelessly grinning friend as the taller man propped himself against the bathroom doorframe.

"Yo!" Hughes flipped up a hand in greeting.

"What part of, 'in a minute,' translates to, 'Please pick my lock and come on in'?" growled Mustang, grabbing for his towel.

"Best friend privilege," said Hughes. "Oh, and it's Option 2. I'm here about _your_ little mystery, not mine."

Mustang's eyes sharpened immediately. "What did you find?"

"So far as the file goes, absolutely nothing," answered Hughes with a grand sweeping gesture. He grinned wryly and adjusted his glasses. "That's what makes it interesting."

Mustang frowned as he retrieved his towel and dried his face. "That sort of 'nothing', huh?"

"Exactly!" said Hughes. "I went to Sunderland and, after gracing him with the lovely image of Elicia in her sundress – you've seen the sundress, haven't you?" Hughes' right hand was reaching for his pocket as he spoke.

"Yes," Mustang answered quickly.

Hughes' hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously. And, why hadn't he noticed before that Hughes was blocking the only exit?

"It's blue – sort of a green shade – with a matching hat," Mustang added as he contemplated how to get past the taller man and escape the bathroom.

But, that seemed to pacify Hughes, who stepped back and away, letting Mustang past.

"So, I talk with Sunderland some and ask him about Fullmetal's file," he continued. "Sure enough, it has an entry in the filing system. We pull it, and it's a file on a Joseph Rutherford, the Splitting Alchemist."

"What about where this Rutherford's file should have been?" asked Mustang as he tucked in his shirt.

"Already thought of that – there was another copy there."

For a minute, there was a silence.

"It's deliberate," said Mustang, reaching for his uniform jacket. There was finality in his voice.

It might just be Grand protecting his pet project, but…

Liore.

"I have a hypothetical situation for you, Hughes."

Hughes' eyes were shadows behind his glasses.

"It's been a while since I've seen your mother," he said.

"Bring the sundress picture – she'll love it."

"I'll bring the album," said Hughes. His smile returned. "We can trade again!"

Mustang, who had been adjusting the collar of his uniform, froze. "_No._"

"Oh, yes." Hughes beamed. "I wonder what she'd take for the one with the lipstick."

Mustang gave him a long stare of horror. "I was four."

"And, adorable with your face all made up."

With a wordless snarl, Mustang abandoned the conversation in favor of finding his boots.

Grinning, Hughes turned to look out the window, lapsing into thought. There was little to see on the street below but the steady buzz of morning traffic. Aside from the car skewed at a nearly ninety degree angle across one lane with steam rising from the point where a fire hydrant was buried in the radiator.

Well, _that_ was going to tie up traffic.

As he watched, two burly men in uniform got out of the car to survey the damage. The first, with hair as dark as his partner's was fair, stomped across the sidewalk and looked, not at the car, but down an alleyway adjacent. Even at a distance, his deep scowl was obvious as he turned back to his partner. The other man walked around the car to join him, and they both looked toward the alley's entrance. From the looks of it, someone had run in front of the car and then on down the alley.

Then, Hughes' sharp eyes caught movement back by the car. Another large man had approached the car from behind and was reaching inside to pull someone out. A small figure, the size of a child, who only offered a confused, awkward resistance that would never be enough.

Hughes was in motion before he really gave the action thought.

"Roy! Trouble!" he called as he hit the door at a run, slamming it open and careening into the hall.

He didn't wait to see if Mustang was following him. He didn't need to wait. Years of friendship both in and out of the military assured that Roy would back him up without question.

Sure enough, by the time he hit the second landing on the stairs, there was a thunder of booted feet behind him. Saving his breath, Hughes offered only the bare minimum of explanations.

"Car accident. Military vehicle," he snapped out. "Probably set up. Someone grabbed a kid from the back. Looked to be heading back north up Main."

A direction their kidnapper would probably only follow until he hit the first alley. Unless he bolted across traffic.

Too many possibilities. Not nearly enough time.

Several more flights fell away under running feet, and they burst out onto the street. Hughes swept his eyes over the wrecked car to orient himself and turned in the direction the kidnapper had fled. He just caught the last flash of blue as a uniformed figure swept into an alley a block away.

"That way!" he called, breaking into a run again.

Good. It looked like the soldiers he had seen earlier were already in pursuit. He just hoped they were going the right way.

Charging into the alley, it was only half-remembered reflexes and a timely slip on some trash that saved Hughes getting his head taken off. As it was, he felt the rush of air through his hair as he skidded under the swing of a meaty fist. Tucking and rolling, he came up with a small knife between his fingers, eyes searching the alley.

A great, hulking figure stood just beyond the entrance. A great, hulking figure in a blue uniform. A 2nd lieutenant by his insignia.

"Don't move!"

Ah, there was Roy. With his sidearm aimed squarely at the huge figure's head.

What they had here, if his hunch was correct – and his hunches usually were – was a communication failure. Time to clear that up before the real bad guys got away.

"Lt. Colonel Maes Hughes," he said quickly. Then, he waved a hand at Roy. "Colonel Roy Mustang. We saw someone grabbed out of your car."

The big man – the fair-haired one he had seen from Roy's window - lowered his arm.

"Sorry, Sir," he grunted. "We thought—"

Roy cut him off. "It's fine," he said, holstering his weapon. "Do you know which way they went?"

The man nodded and turned to lead the way at a run. Mustang raced after him, and, re-sheathing his knife, Hughes fell in behind.

Fortunately, they didn't have to go far. A left turn out of the alleyway, and they were on the narrow street backing Main. And, just ahead, the other soldier was grappling with an equally large man beside an idling car. A second, slimmer man with a long ponytail was trying to shove the small figure Hughes had seen from the window into the car. With only limited success.

The child wasn't fighting so much as he was simply not moving. Legs locked, one hand braced against the doorframe, the boy – judging by the short hair and body shape – was just barely holding himself in place.

Hughes wasted no more time than the instants it took to size up the situation. As the second man half-turned, raising a hand to clout the boy in the head, he let fly with one of his knives.

There was a howl of pain as the small, sharp knife embedded itself in the man's raised palm. Ignoring it, Hughes swept forward to pull the boy away from the car, swinging him around and behind his own body. The child was startlingly heavy for his size. But, it was an instant's observation quickly filed away for later. All Hughes' attention was focused on the attacker and keeping himself between the man and the child now behind him. With his free hand, he reached for his own sidearm.

"How about you behave yourself, eh?"

Ripping the knife from his hand, the man glared at Hughes. Then, his face pulled into a smirk. It was Hughes' only warning.

In an instant, the man had hurled the knife for his head. Just as quickly, he was lunging after it with an outstretched, tattooed palm and a feral grin.

Hughes was already in motion. The knife whistled past his ear as he gave up on the gun and dove to the side, pulling the child with him. But, the knife was nothing. It was the man he had to worry about. Years in Investigations had taught him many things. And, one of the most important was to never let an attacking alchemist get his hands on you.

"That's far enough!"

The crack of a revolver froze the man before he could pursue them further. Roy. Thank goodness. Hughes took the opportunity to roll himself and the still shell-shocked kid out of the line of fire. Coming up against a wall, he twisted to give the child a reassuring smile.

Only it wasn't a child he was holding.

Small, yes, but no child had the face of a fifty year old man. And, that was ignoring the gray hair.

Well.

Hughes smiled anyway.

His only response was a confused stare.

"My, this is an interesting reunion," said Mustang as he stepped forward. His voice was light, but Hughes heard the underlying tension in it. And, it immediately erased the smile.

Reunion? This _was_ bad then. Worse than bad if Roy was tense. Roy didn't get tense.

"Mustang," said the ponytailed man. "Haven't seen you since Ishval."

Hughes gave his companion a nudge. They should move. _Now._ Unfortunately, the smaller man only gave him a blank stare.

"Probably because you've been in prison," said Mustang. "How did you get out, Kimblee?"

Kimblee. Hughes felt the worry that had been growing solidify and crawl down his throat to settle in his stomach. The Crimson Alchemist. He had studied the man's files in conjunction with the Scar case due to the similarities in their victims' injuries. And, learned more than he ever wanted to know about how alchemy could make the human body explode. Thank goodness he hadn't let the man touch him.

"Now, that," Kimblee answered, "would be telling." He smiled, a sudden sharp line across his narrow face.

"I'm sure the military will find someone you'd be willing to tell," said Mustang coldly.

"Mmm, but I don't plan on speaking with them again any time soon." Kimblee let his eyes drift toward where Hughes was still shielding his charge. "Because unless one of you is skilled in medical alchemy, I'd advise you give me the Fullmetal Alchemist there and let me be on my way."

Mustang didn't dare glance away from Kimblee. "Hughes?"

So, this was Fullmetal? No time to think about it. Hughes shook the small man's shoulder.

"Hey, Elric, you okay?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level. "Did that guy use any kind of alchemy on you?"

"I…"

Fullmetal faltered, still trying to process a world that was moving far too fast. He had been going to the library, as ordered, when everything had suddenly become loud and chaotic with far too many strangers pulling and tugging on him. It was outside of his routine, outside of his orders.

And, even the world he understood was distant this morning. He felt disconnected, moving through the motions of his familiar routine on force of habit alone. Trying to actually _think_ was hard. Almost impossible when the world insisted on plunging into a chaos so far removed from everything he knew. But, a superior officer was asking questions, and that meant he would answer.

Think.

Remember.

The long-haired man had been trying to get him into the car. There had been something… a hand, a push.

"_Remember._"

"He did…. something behind me."

He should say more. Explain. But, the world was falling away around him. It was all he could do to keep his vision steady.

"_Remember._"

"What did you do?" Mustang demanded of Kimblee, his voice dropping to a growl.

"Just a simple, slow-acting transmutation." Kimblee looked thoughtful. "Well, the sequence of chemical reactions it set off is slow-acting. But, in another ten minutes or so, the inorganic phosphate in his body will be so far along the way to becoming white phosphorus that it would be pointless to interrupt the process." Kimblee shrugged negligently as a deeper smile overtook his face. "Shame the end result won't be especially impressive."

"Phosphorus?" Mustang's eyes widened. White phosphorus was volatile, unstable. Directly transmuting the body's natural phosphate into its more dangerous relative wouldn't create one of Kimblee's trademark explosions – assuming Kimblee hadn't done more – but it would kill. Mustang bit off a curse, pushing down the visceral disgust and reaching instead for logic.

"I don't believe you."

"Roy!"

He ignored Hughes, schooling his face back into an impassive mask.

"Oh?" Kimblee arched a brow.

"You were taking Fullmetal somewhere, weren't you? Which means you – or someone else – wants him alive." Mustang rolled his shoulders. "You would have killed him from the start if that was your intention."

"So confident," drawled Kimblee. "But, taking Fullmetal alive is just Option 1. Option 2 is simply removing him from the equation. Either works."

Hughes watched his friend fight to keep the disgust off his face as his own mind raced through the possibilities. Kimblee might be telling the truth; Fullmetal seemed to be too confused to say for sure. And, they were out of time. Kimblee wouldn't reverse the transmutation here. So, if he weren't lying, Fullmetal's life was hanging on a window of minutes.

"So, what will it be?" Kimblee asked.

Mustang lowered his weapon a fraction. "Hughes."

Hughes looked toward him, praying to find some signal that there was another solution. But, Mustang's eyes were locked on Kimblee. If he had a plan, he wasn't sharing it yet. Behind him, the dark-haired soldier had Kimblee's accomplice pinned against the vehicle with one hand, watching the situation play out with a scowl. His blond partner was beside him, looking uncertain. No help there.

Well, whether Roy had a plan or not, he needed Elric on his feet.

"Elric," said Hughes, giving the smaller man a light shake, "can you stand?" He forced a grin as Fullmetal's unfocused gaze swung towards him. "Of course, you can! Come on." Slipping a hand around the alchemist's slight frame and under his right arm – ah, automail, that would explain all that weight – he pulled Fullmetal to his feet.

"I'm not—" Fullmetal began, but Hughes was looking over him, watching Mustang.

"It'll be okay, Elric," said Hughes as he supported the smaller man and took a shuffling step toward Kimblee. He hated himself with each word. It might not be okay at all.

"Is this a change of orders?" Fullmetal asked, looking up with yellow eyes that were half-lidded.

Kimblee snorted quietly. "Really, he's not worth the trouble. Maybe you two should stall a little longer?"

Fullmetal let his weight rest more against the dark-haired man at his side. He felt weak. And, so confused.

He had orders. That should help. His orders always told him what to do.

"_Remember._"

It was no use. The people around him, the solid ground under his feet and even his orders were all fading away as darkness crept over him. Everything was becoming so much meaningless nonsense. He struggled for a moment. He had orders. He had to go to the library, had to decode the notes.

Why?

He had orders.

Yes. But, did they matter?

He had orders.

But, he no longer had the will to obey them.

And, with that realization, there was a sudden, sharp wrench in his chest. Then, there was nothing.

Hughes was not prepared for Fullmetal to collapse. As it was, he was just fast enough to keep the suddenly boneless alchemist from crashing face first to the sidewalk.

"Hughes, is he—?" Mustang started, darting a quick glance at his friend before flicking his eyes back to Kimblee. The words froze in his throat as he watched the briefest flash of surprise cross Kimblee's face. Then, it was gone as Kimblee abruptly lunged, not toward Fullmetal, but toward Mustang himself.

He should have fired. But, in those fractions of a second, the instinct to first dodge the bloody hand reaching for his face won out. He twisted aside, trying to bring his arm around to aim again.

Wait – bloody! Kimblee's outstretched palm was bisected by a bloody line. A bloody line cutting across the tattooed transmutation circle. The circle was broken. It couldn't—

But, Kimblee's other hand was already closing around the barrel of his sidearm, crackling with blue light, deforming the metal under his fingers.

Mustang dropped the ruined weapon and threw himself back. But, there was no explosion. The gun clattered harmlessly to the sidewalk as Kimblee swept in with a kick aimed at Mustang's chest. Stumbling away, Mustang avoided the worst of it, but caught enough of a blow to send him staggering. With a growl, he fumbled for his right pocket.

"Pathetic," Kimblee sneered as he followed the kick with a punch.

No, not a punch.

"Hey!" Still grappling with Fullmetal's dead weight, Hughes grabbed for a weapon.

And, both of Fullmetal's burly bodyguards were moving in.

But, it was all far, far too late because Kimblee's injured hand had closed around the glove Mustang was trying so desperately to free.

Two hands, two tattoos, Mustang's dazed brain reminded him. Working in tandem. Opposites that together formed a whole. Providing Kimblee with the ability to transmute any substance. One bearing a circle with the elemental symbols for earth and water. The other bearing a now-useless, broken circle with the elemental symbols for air and fire. Just like his own, undamaged gloves.

Which would make such a nice substitute for the madman.

"_Not _my_ gloves, you—!_"

Even with Kimblee ripping it from his grasp, it took only an instant to activate the second, hidden circle woven white on white into the fabric. Mustang almost smirked as the demented glee on Kimblee's face widened into shock when the glove ignited in his hand. But, he didn't. Because it was much more satisfying to take that moment to slam his fist into Kimblee's face.

Kimblee fell back, reflexively flinging away the burning remnants of the glove. A bullet grazed his side as Fullmetal's bodyguards opened fire once he was clear of Mustang.

Feeling the hot flash of fresh pain, Kimblee snarled. Time for a retreat. What a waste. Years spent rotting in a cell and, when things were finally getting interesting, he had to run. That knife-wielding nuisance would pay for crippling his alchemy.

Moving with his momentum, Kimblee let himself tumble back against the hood of the car that should have been his getaway vehicle. His temporary partner was slumped against the tire, collapsed where the dark-haired soldier had dropped him. Ducking, Kimblee grabbed the man's collar and hoisted him up as an impromptu human shield as he rolled himself around the front of the car. Then, tossing the dead weight aside, he brought his injured hand to his mouth to tear the knife wound further with his teeth. It was so hard to create a proper reaction with only half the equation, after all. Blood dripping from his savaged palm, he began to draw a crude circle on the side of the car.

Mustang yanked on his remaining glove and looked up in time to see Kimblee dive for cover. To his left, Fullmetal's bodyguards started to advance on the idling car.

Car. Metal. Gasoline.

"Wait!" He threw out his gloved hand, transmutation circle glowing.

And, the world up-ended as the car exploded.


	11. Book 2: Chapter 11: I'm Not Where

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> June 1, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Some unpleasantness in the aftermath.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thanks to my brother, the pyromaniac, for helping me with some technical details. I don't know if I did his suggestion justice, but I tried.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 11: I'm Not Where I'm Supposed to Be**

"_Stop!_"

He froze at the sudden, angry voice. Familiarity flickered within him, and he debated his options for a moment.

No. He wouldn't let it stop him.

Ignoring the voice, he turned again toward his goal.

He was so close now. It was just ahead of him, that curious red glow. It was warm and pulsing with the overwhelming presence of so many others.

"_Edward, stop!_"

"_Stop!_"

"_Stop!_"

Other voices joined in, echoing the same command. No. It was more like a plea.

And, the desperation in it made him hesitate.

"_Why stop?_" he called. "_Want to go! No more alone!_"

For a minute, there was silence.

Then, a quiet murmur began.

"_Been so long…_"

"_Forgotten so much._"

"_Not possible anymore._"

"_But, he _promised."

Promised?

"_Edward._" The familiar voice was back, sounding infinitely sad. "_Do you even realize what joining us means? Do you not remember who you are?_"

"_Ed,_" he responded petulantly. It was what the voices called him. It felt right.

"_Yes, Ed,_" said the voice patiently. "_Do you remember why you're here? Do you remember what you're waiting for?_"

Remember, remember, remember! He was tired of being asked to remember!

"_No. Don't want to remember!_"

"_Ed._" A new voice, soft and hesitant. "_Are you going to give up?_"

Give up? He wasn't giving up. Leaving this dark prison wasn't giving up. It was escape. It was freedom.

"_No. It's forgetting. Please, Ed, don't forget._"

Forget? What was there to forget? There had never been anything else. Had there?

"_Oh, Ed._" The second voice was sad. Why was she sad?

He didn't understand.

"_Edward,_" the first voice was back now, quieter, chiding. "_Do you remember your promise?_"

Promise? That word again. A promise was… important.

"_Promise?_" he repeated.

"_Remember._"

"_Remember, please._"

He tried, tried just once more to remember. Because promises were meant to be kept. And, the voices were sad. The voices were his only company, his friends. He didn't want them to be sad. He didn't want to disappoint them.

So, he reached, deeper and deeper. Grasping after shreds of memory. And, he found them.

A horrible, hungry red light that consumed everything in its path. Faces instantly frozen forever in a look of shocked confusion. A bubble of blue light shielding him, wavering, collapsing as crimson consumed the world.

Death and blood. All of it was so much death.

And, all his fault.

He didn't understand it. But, he knew it was true. And, a strangled scream tore its way out of him at the horror of it.

Was this memory?

"_No!_"

He didn't want them, these memories.

Pain and blood and people dying all around him.

But…

"_My fault?_" he asked the voices.

Did they want him to remember what he had done? What he had caused?

"_No!_"

The word echoed with the power of so many voices it hurt.

"_No, _their_ fault!_"

"_Ed tried to stop!_"

"_Doesn't matter now._"

"_Ed fought!_"

"_Hate _them_!_"

"_Chose to help._"

"_Please help._"

It was too much. Too many voices. Too many words. Too many _feelings_.

Comfort. Anger. Pain. Sadness. Despair. Hope.

He couldn't take it in. It was as though he was suddenly filled with thousands of people, all screaming to be heard.

"_Please…_"

Too much. It was too much.

"_Please… Please!_"

Slowly, the cacophony abated as the voices sensed his distress. Out of the sudden silence came a sense of determination. Chaos resolved into a singular intent.

"_Past gone._"

"_Ed can help _now."

"_It hurts. I know._" The second voice. Quiet. Gentle. "_But, remember, Ed. Remember what you told me. Stand up. Move forward._"

For a space of endless moments, he fought to collect himself. To understand.

Whatever he had done, it was done. The voices did not blame him. But, they needed his help.

He owed them. He had promised.

He reached again for the thin threads of memory. More images came to him, scattered and confused. Determined, he tried to make sense of it all.

"_Edward._" The usual voice again. "_I'm afraid there may not be time to do this the easier or safer way._"

He paused, confused.

"_And, I know there are memories you meant to hide even from yourself. But…_" The voice sounded tired. "_Edward, forgive me._"

Forgive him? Forgive him for what?

"_Edward, do you remember _Alphonse?"

Alphonse. Al. Little brother.

A rush of thought, of memory swept through him. A little boy with dirty blond hair. A grave. A promise. A chalked circle that glowed an angry red. Screams. Blood.

Al disappearing under his hand.

The other memories had been mistake upon mistake, but nothing compared to the agony of this first failure. This first sin.

"_Al!_"

Fire roared around him.

And, screaming, he brought his hands together.

* * *

><p>Coughing, Roy Mustang forced himself up into a sitting position. And, immediately barked out a curse as pain lanced through his palms. Glass, he realized, shaking his hands. Every window in a half mile radius was probably shattered. Careful now, he squinted into the smoky haze to survey the damage.<p>

The car was a smoldering hulk of twisted metal. Pieces of it littered the street, warped beyond recognition. But, the heavier debris _was_ at least largely confined to the street. At his feet was a wide swath of clear ground. Clean of debris but equally scorched, it spread out before him, widest where he sat and narrowing as it reached the charred car frame.

It had been a last minute decision. Creating his own explosion to repel Kimblee's blast. He had transmuted an "arrow" of oxygen, pulling as much as he dared from the surrounding air and directing it straight at the car before igniting it. The resultant collision had driven most of the concussive force skyward, shattering windows and probably raining debris for a block or more.

Mustang ignored the property destruction and, instead, searched for signs of life. There was a choked cough to his left, and he turned – rising cautiously into a crouch because he had already ground enough glass into his hands – to find Fullmetal's bodyguards stirring. Both were alive then. Everyone had been to the left of his hasty deflection. Not within the safest range to avoid the blast or the fallout.

And, Hughes and Fullmetal had been the furthest away.

Dark eyes swept over the guards and across the sidewalk. Small fires burned intermittently. Glass glittered amid unidentifiable fragments. And, a dark shape was lying right where Hughes and Fullmetal had been sitting.

With a wordless shout, Mustang leapt up. If a piece of the car _that_ size had fallen on them—

But, no. There! A flash of blue caught his eye.

Hughes.

Huddled behind what wasn't metal or other debris at all. Instead, it was a curving wall of concrete, rising from the sidewalk and bending back over his body.

A shield. With the unmistakable rectangular marks of a hasty transmutation all over it.

"Hughes!"

Mustang bent to look into the makeshift shelter.

And, nearly collided with a head of dark hair.

"Ah! I thought I was going to die!" Sucking in a deep breath, Hughes coughed on the acrid smoke still hovering over the street. Then, his watery hazel eyes rolled toward Mustang, squinting behind cracked lenses. "Traveling with you is dangerous."

"As I recall," said Mustang, eyes searching for signs of injury," this little excursion was your idea."

"I didn't realize there were more alchemists involved." Hughes began gingerly extricating himself, mindful of the rubble littering the sidewalk. "When you get alchemists into it, everything goes crazy."

"Present company excepted, I trust."

"Ha! You're the worst." Crouched, Hughes turned back to the concrete shield.

Mustang tensed. "Fullmetal, is he—?"

Before Hughes could answer, a hoarse voice cut in.

"You're _loud_."

Fullmetal's yellow eyes were bright against his pale face as he stared up at Mustang. His glasses were absent, and it seemed to take him a minute to identify the other man. Then, with a grunt, he clambered out of the narrow space under the alchemized wall.

"So," Mustang kept his voice casual, "I trust Kimblee was lying then?"

Standing with Hughes' help, Fullmetal turned to stare at him blankly. "Kimblee?" His voice was nothing but a croak.

"The man who was trying to kidnap you," Mustang elaborated.

More blank staring.

"Do you remember the past… month at all?" It was a last second word swap, but he suddenly had the feeling that it was important.

"I…" Something in Fullmetal's eyes was still hazy. "Study. No, library. We were at the library," he rasped.

Mustang started to question the older alchemist further when Hughes stopped him.

"He needs a doctor, Roy. Just in case," he said.

Realizing his friend was right, Mustang nodded his agreement.

"Now, how to—?" Hughes cocked his head and rubbed at one ear. "Are my ears still ringing or did someone finally notice you lunatics blowing up the city?"

Mustang scowled, but listened. Sure enough, there was a steady wail growing in the distance.

"No, it sounds like at least a fire brigade is on the way."

And, military police, possibly even soldiers, had no doubt been dispatched as well. Mustang's eyes drifted to the alchemically created shield. There was no way Fullmetal had had time to draw a circle. Looking at Hughes, Mustang cut his eyes back to the shield. Hughes arched a brow but obligingly turned his attention to Fullmetal.

"C'mon, Elric. Sounds like help will be here in a minute." Hughes steered the unsteady alchemist to the nearest building. Once Fullmetal was safely propped against a wall, he followed the sound of muttered cursing toward the alchemist's bodyguards.

"So, everybody alive over here?" he called. "What's that? Speak up! I think my eardrums were blown out in that blast."

Mustang was already kneeling under Fullmetal's shield. With a piece of blackened metal from the sidewalk, he began to scratch a small circle at the base of the unmarred concrete beneath. Completing the basic transmutation circle, he shot a quick look to see that Hughes had the guards turned away, still babbling nonsense. Good. He reached a hand down to activate the circle. As a stutter of blue light engulfed the concrete, there was a small cry behind him.

Ignoring it, Mustang kept his attention on the transmutation. Under his direction, the small wall shifted and slowly melded back into the sidewalk. In seconds, it was as though the shield had never been, save for a small patch of clear ground behind it. A few kicks at the scattered ash and debris solved that problem. Then, Mustang turned to Fullmetal.

The gray-haired alchemist's eyes were wide and unfocused. "It took him," he said, his voice a rough whisper. "And, I couldn't— My fault. All my fault." His left, flesh hand clutched at his metal arm. "I tried." His legs were shaking. "Offered anything it wanted." Fingers dug through cloth into unfeeling, unyielding steel.

Mustang waited, uncertain. For the first time in days, Fullmetal was talking like a human being. A broken, fragile human being possibly on the edge of sliding into shock, but at least he wasn't a life-sized doll anymore.

Fullmetal didn't say anything further, just stared ahead, lost in his own nightmares. Mustang could only wonder if they involved Drachma or Liore. Or both. Whatever the case, he _might_ be able to ask later, if Fullmetal didn't start seizing again. That in mind, he quickly crossed the distance between them and took Fullmetal by his living shoulder to give him a light shake.

"Elric!"

Fullmetal's whole body jerked. Then, his eyes focused on Mustang, blinking. Slowly, the wide-eyed horror slipped off his face. In its place something else flitted by. A flash of something like fear, a grimace. Then, it was all gone as expression bled away, and Mustang found himself looking down at the too-familiar human doll.

Mustang barely choked back the curse bubbling in his throat.

"Roy! Give me a hand here!"

Turning, he saw the two large guards standing wearily amid the destruction and Hughes several feet away crouched by a blackened lump of something. No, some_one_.

Calling the guards to watch Fullmetal, Mustang gave the small alchemist a nudge toward the wall before hurrying over to survey what was left of Kimblee's accomplice. Astoundingly, the man was still alive, breathing shallowly. However, Mustang mused as he inspected the damage with a practiced eye, he didn't expect the man to survive long enough to provide any answers. There was good reason Hughes hadn't even attempted to move the man. The third degree burns were only the most obvious injuries. And, those alone were likely fatal. The man would probably never wake up, and be better off for it.

"Well, it's something," Mustang allowed after a minute.

Hughes shrugged.

Both men looked up at a screech of tires from the opposite end of the street.

"Ah," Hughes sounded far too cheerful, "is that General Grand?"

Mustang's scowl deepened before vanishing entirely as he turned to meet the general.

Grand was out of the car almost before it had come to a complete stop.

"Mustang, what is going on here?"

"Sir," Mustang snapped off a salute, "it's imperative that the Fullmetal Alchemist be taken to a hospital immediately. Kimblee, the former Crimson Alchemist, was here and claimed to have used alchemy to transmute the chemicals in Fullmetal's body. We have not been able to confirm or deny this."

An instant's shock flitted over Grand's face, but he recovered admirably. Looking past Mustang, his eyes landed on Fullmetal now flanked by his two slightly singed bodyguards. "Heinkel! Darius!" the general bellowed. "Get Fullmetal in the car immediately!" As the pair hurried to do so, he swung back to Mustang. "Meet me at Central Hospital. I'll expect a full report." Dark eyes flicked toward Hughes and narrowed. "I want to speak to you as well, Lieutenant Colonel."

Sensing Grand was an instant from leaving, Mustang quickly added. "This man," a wave toward the charred body, "was Kimblee's accomplice. Though I'm doubtful he'll survive to tell us anything."

Grand gave the body a quick, narrow look. "Inform the medics when they arrive."

Then, he stormed back to the car where Fullmetal had been guided into the back seat. Ignoring Heinkel and Darius, he threw himself inside, yelling, "Central Hospital! Go!"

The car roared away with a fresh squeal from the abused tires.

"Well," Hughes watched as the car narrowly avoided a small convoy of approaching fire and military vehicles as it rounded the nearest corner and sped out of sight, "he certainly gets to the point."

Mustang didn't answer. "Hughes," his voice was quiet, "Fullmetal didn't draw a transmutation circle, did he?"

"Didn't see one," said Hughes. "Just him slapping his hands together. I assumed it was on his automail or something." He arched an eyebrow curiously.

"Mmmm… We really need to have that talk."

"Good. Because, more than that, I want to know who Al is."

Mustang raised an eyebrow. "Al?"

"That's what I think he said." Hughes dug a finger into his left ear. "Or rather screamed. Right about the time everything blew up."

"I really wish I had that file," Mustang groused to no one in particular.

* * *

><p>An hour later, Maes Hughes found himself studying the slow progression of an aneurysm. Thankfully, not his own.<p>

After commandeering a small suite of offices, General Grand had sat them down in the largest and then proceeded to listen to Roy's account of the morning's events with a stony face. A stony face that had developed a worrisome tick that made his narrow moustache twitch. Then, just as the moustache was starting to appear as though it wanted to jump from the general's face and attack someone, Grand had stormed off to place some calls. When he returned, the tick was gone, but his face was instead a faintly mottled red.

"The prison is saying they received word of a sudden transfer for Kimblee," he said. "He disappeared in transit."

Wisely, neither Hughes nor Mustang chose to comment on this rather egregious error.

"Thus far, the doctors haven't found anything wrong with Fullmetal," Grand continued, "so that much was likely a bluff." As Roy had already guessed. "However, it's become clear that someone has taken an unhealthy interest in him." Dark eyes pinned Mustang with a grim stare.

Roy's face was unreadable. "It would seem so, Sir," he said.

Hughes found himself watching a vein in Grand's forehead with great interest. The pulsing was sort of an erratic one-two beat, like a fast march.

Grand's eyes held Roy for a long minute before flicking to Hughes. "Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, I believe Major Archer is in your department?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Has he spoken with you recently?"

"No, Sir." Idly, Hughes wondered if his poker face was as good as Roy's. It wasn't much good _against_ Roy. Certainly not at poker. But, he thought it was fairly effective against normal people. Granted, given the general looked like he might combust at any minute, he probably didn't qualify as "normal". "Major Archer and I have only occasionally worked on the same cases."

Grand hummed. Or growled maybe. It was hard to say.

"Well, it's not important," he said at last. "I'll speak with the major later. You're dismissed."

"Sir." Shooting the clearly _not_ dismissed Roy a discreet look of sympathy, Hughes made his escape.

Well, that had been interesting. And, not just the part where he was imagining placing bets with Roy on how long it would be before the general keeled over. Roy was really caught up in something crazy this time. Secret projects, confused amnesiacs, escaped maniacs. And, where exactly did Major Archer fit?

He and Roy were going to have a _lot_ to talk through. And, maybe it would help that he had remembered one more place to check for that illusive file.

Because the whole mess had him curious now.

* * *

><p>Once Hughes had left, the full force of Grand's ire came down on Mustang.<p>

Rising from his chair, he paced to the office's door and then back to the desk, looming over Mustang. "I expect you know better than to divulge classified details, Colonel," he hissed.

"Of course, Sir," said Mustang levelly. He also knew exactly when and where and how many details to divulge when it became necessary. It had been necessary ever since this bizarre project had sent his fellow researcher into a coma. It had become imperative now that Kimblee was on the loose. "If you're suggesting I was somehow involved with that madman…" Mustang let the faintest thread of anger slip through his careful facade.

Grand snarled and slashed a hand through the air. "I expect you to be smarter than _that_, Mustang. Everyone who served in Ishval knows Kimblee's a maniac who can't be trusted not to kill his own side." He leaned forward. "No, I mean your friend in Investigations."

More perceptive than Mustang had expected of Grand. But, easily deflected with enough of the truth.

"Lieutenant Colonel Hughes is an old friend from the Academy," said Mustang. "I've been quite busy lately, and he came by to catch me for an early breakfast." He didn't need to say what had kept him so busy. "As he works in Investigations, Hughes and I generally avoid military talk beyond the latest gossip." Gossip did so neatly hide a myriad of more serious topics. "He'd much rather talk about his family anyway," Mustang added with a small, genuine smile.

Grand treated him to another prolonged glower as though searching for some sign of deception. Really, it was no wonder Hughes had kept staring at that vein in the man's forehead. It _was_ becoming rather prominent.

Mustang kept his face bland.

After a minute, Grand relented, huffing out an angry breath and stalking back to his seat. "Security will have to be doubled. I'm moving Fullmetal into the barracks nearest the library. Should Kimblee target you— Well, I trust you can defend yourself."

"Of course." Now, Mustang allowed a dark smile to curl his lips. He had no intention of letting Kimblee take him by surprise again.

* * *

><p>Several rooms away, surrounded by a bevy of doctors, Fullmetal sat numbly amid the flurry of activity. Stripped to his underwear, the cold air and even colder instruments had turned every inch of bare skin to gooseflesh. He was prodded and probed and passed from one brusque professional to another.<p>

He ignored it all, mechanically obeying commands out of habit. Only the flash of a needle as a blood sample was taken made him flinch momentarily.

Inside, his mind was caught in its own chaotic flurry.

Something had happened. Something monumental.

But, it was gone now.

And, though the voices were completely silent, he couldn't seem to bring it back.

All that remained was the vague sense that somewhere someone was waiting for him.


	12. Book 2: Chapter 12: I Gotta Fight

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> June 8, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Violence, some blood.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> And, a number of things finally come to a head. Also, again, many, many thanks to everyone that's been reading and/or commenting on this. As well as to my betas, SageSK and Kayca, and my Big Bang artists, Bay115 and Dreamer1789, who were a great encouragement as well.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 12: I Gotta Fight Another Fight**

"_He…_ I_ said too much._"

His memory was still fragmented, confused. But, words were easier now. Easier to put emotion into thought, thought into words. And, easier to remember that some words must never be said _out there_.

But, he _had_ spoken. _They_ had spoken. When that terrible rush of memory had propelled him out of the darkness and he found himself truly back in the light for the first time in so many years. In that handful of minutes in a reality that had become surreal, there had been no distinction between himself and the other. They were one in their confusion. One in mind. One in the halting stutter of words that spilled from their lips as they tried to comprehend the broken memories raging through them.

Which was a mistake. A mistake made worse by his words.

Words he could not take back, spoken to the dark-haired man in the blue uniform.

"_Perhaps it's not so bad._"

The voice again. Sounding hesitant.

Remembering why the voice was hesitant was easy.

"_Not bad?_" he growled. He had not forgotten the voice's betrayal. Though it shouldn't have been a surprise. It wasn't the first time. "_I almost told one of _them_ about _Al_!_"

_Them._ Blue uniforms with angry faces. Blue uniforms demanding answers he would never give. Blue clad arms raising to strike. Men in blue issuing orders to far more frightening men in white labcoats. The glint of gold in a toothy smile.

The voice's next words forced the broken images aside.

"_I _am_ sorry, Edward. But, I couldn't let you die. I trusted Alphonse's memory could reach you when nothing else could._"

Of course it could. Even now, he couldn't quite bury those memories as far as he should. They were too precious.

"_It would've been better than—!_"

"_And, who will save Alphonse if you die?_"

For a minute, he snarled impotently. It was true. But, he didn't have to like it.

"_So, now what?_" he spat. "_He's one of _them_. He'll tell _them."

"_You spoke to him once, you know._"

A dim concrete room. The other one trying to answer a question that should never be answered. Dark eyes looking down at him with genuine concern. A voice.

"_Do you remember?_" the voice persisted. "_You trusted him enough to take a chance then. Why?_"

A voice. Words.

"_I..._ _Because he said my name._"

* * *

><p>Finally released from the hospital after two days of incessant examinations and more needles than he cared to think about, Fullmetal eyed his new living space. Well, it was smaller, but the narrow room in the barracks was otherwise no better or worse than his apartment. Outside, a gust of winter wind slapped the building and whistled over his single window. Immediately, he felt a rush of icy air against his face.<p>

Fullmetal scowled. Correction then. His apartment wasn't nearly so drafty. If the room stayed like this, he was going to be miserable. He could feel it in every throb radiating from the stumps of his arm and leg.

He gave the simple bed – nothing more than a metal frame and mattress – a baleful look. In the chaos of moving out the second bed and other excess furniture for a roommate he didn't have, someone had shoved the remaining bed directly under the lone window. And, he certainly wasn't sleeping _there_.

For a few minutes, Fullmetal debated. The last couple days had been a foggy haze of being passed from one uniformed figure to another before being deposited in the hospital so a bevy of doctors could take their turn at him. He wasn't sure about the days before that. But, today, he felt fine. A little bruised here and there, and cold weather never did anything pleasant to the scar tissue around his automail ports, but his head was clear. And, if his head was clear, there was no physical pain he couldn't ignore.

Decided, he began the process of re-arranging everything not bolted down. And, once that was done, he would think about a few of the things that were.

It helped that his meager belongings were easily moved aside. Grand's soldiers had transferred the entire contents of his apartment, minus furniture, and they still filled no more than two suitcases and a medium-sized box. He owned only a basic wardrobe, toiletries, and a handful of research materials. One could only carry the essentials when traveling. Everything else was gone in the fire anyway.

Fullmetal froze in the act of shoving the bed against one of the walls. Fire? He had lived in the same apartment since his release from the hospital almost twenty years ago. There had never been a fire.

The fire must have been _before_.

Fullmetal immediately shied away from the thread of memory, waiting for the roar of voices to build in his mind. But, it never came. Whispers reached him, mutterings floating up from a great depth, but there was no attack.

Huffing out a sigh of relief, he gave the bed frame a final shove. With a screech, it settled snugly against the wall beside the radiator. Fullmetal grinned and laid his left palm against the wall over the bed. It was blissfully warm from the hot water pipes feeding the radiator. Briefly, he debated digging out a blanket and snuggling up against that warmth until someone came to drag him away.

A fresh blast of frigid air made him decide against it. First things first. The room's simple desk and chest of drawers should make a suitable windbreak. Shame they hadn't left the second bed.

But… If the voices were quiet today, if he didn't pursue memories of fires or his wandering youth, maybe he could do something more permanent with that window. Stretching the wall's material to fill in the crumbling attempt at insulation was a simple enough transmutation. And, it would spare him worlds of pain.

Of course, there was a tempting alternative. It wasn't as though all _four_ of the soldiers stationed outside his door were so necessary a couple couldn't fetch hot water bottles for him.

Maybe he could do both, he thought with a sudden wicked smile.

Still grinning, he moved to the window, one hand digging in his pocket for some chalk. And, froze at the sound of a knock on his door.

"Hey, Fullmetal. We're here to take you to the library."

He growled. "Just you wait," he hissed to the drafty window before hurrying to the door.

* * *

><p>Roy Mustang was feeling good about the day ahead. At least as much as he had any day in recent memory. Which is to say he met the morning with only a vague sense of unease.<p>

Grand was growing paranoid, someone had taken a sudden, unpleasant interest in Fullmetal, Kimblee was out of prison, and he felt no closer to solving either Grand's or his personal mystery. But, there were no soldiers at his door and the sky was clear of any signs of an explosion, so the unease remained a nagging flutter in his stomach. Frustrating, but nothing that would kill him. Yet.

At least he had managed to contact Breda in East City and redirect him. His trip through the Central Tribune archives had led him to revise a few theories. Now it was up to Breda to prove them.

That in mind, Mustang stepped outside and eyed the gray-white sky overhead. The sun was nothing but a patch of painful brightness in the east, and there was a curious hush to the air. It was going to snow. The thought made him tug his long coat closer.

"Looks like snow, doesn't it?" piped a voice to his right.

Mustang turned to find a stout older woman smiling at him from behind a small street vendor's cart.

"It does indeed," he answered politely.

"And, you're without a hat," the woman tutted. "Here." She pulled something from her cart. "At least take an umbrella with you." She extended a slender black umbrella toward him.

"Oh, no thank you, ma'am." Mustang quickly waved a hand.

The old woman smiled. "Consider it a gift. Wouldn't want you wet and useless now, would we?"

Mustang tensed immediately. "And, who might it be a gift from, dear lady?"

"Miss Olivier, of course," she answered, her smile knowing now.

"Ah." Mustang relaxed and reached for the umbrella. "In that case it would be a shame to turn down a gift from such a lovely lady."

"And, unwise as well," said the old woman. There was a twinkle in her eyes now.

"Indeed." Taking the umbrella in hand, Mustang made to leave. "My thanks for passing this along."

The woman merely waved cheerfully, bobbing her gray head. "I'm always doing favors for Miss Olivier and her family."

Mustang returned her smile and continued on his way. A block away, he finally dared to carefully open the umbrella. Inside, he found a note curled around the main shaft. Its contents were brief.

"No record of State Alchemist captured in Briggs by Drachmans. One record of Briggs soldiers assisting in capture of rogue alchemist near border. Dated July, 1884. No further details. Will expect meal next time in Central. Assuming you're alive."

"Charming as always," Mustang murmured to himself.

But, his mind was far from Olivier Armstrong and her blunt nature.

The Briggs soldiers had helped to capture a rogue alchemist near the Drachman border in July, 1884. The same month and year Fullmetal had been reported missing.

The pieces were finally coming together in his mind and forming a picture. An ugly one.

"But, why?" Mustang hissed.

If an alchemist had destroyed Liore – or had been _ordered_ to destroy Liore - and then tried to escape to Drachma, why wouldn't he still be in prison? It was obvious why he would be falsely listed as MIA. No need to let the Drachmans, or anyone else, realize that the means to easily destroy an entire city even existed. And, it was obvious why he would be kept alive. At least until his methods were understood and could be duplicated. But, why release him?

Mustang froze abruptly.

"Because he hid it."

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes after leaving his apartment, Fullmetal found himself back in the familiar basement room with an unfamiliar black notebook.<p>

"What's this?" he asked the older guard who had handed it to him.

"The original copy of the notes. Sir." The "Sir" was a clear afterthought, and Fullmetal scowled.

But, he made no comment and, instead, took the little book to the table. There, he paused. One of the simple wooden chairs had transformed into a vaguely chair-like sculpture featuring a gaping, fanged mouth for a seat and snakes for a back. It was good work, if odd. Maybe an alchemist had gotten bored.

He didn't pursue the mystery, opting to take a seat on the sculpture's tongue and begin flipping through the notebook. The text was handwritten but clearly legible. And, familiar.

"It's the same as the typed copy," he said to himself.

He already knew the codes hidden in the words themselves. So, maybe there was something in the handwriting.

For several minutes, he studied the first page. There was something about the slant of the dots above the I's. And, why did the slant of the letters as a whole change erratically? Holding the notebook back from his face, he waited to see if any patterns would form.

Slowly, a series of curves began to take shape. And, with it, an agitated murmur in his mind.

Fullmetal set the notebook down experimentally. The voices immediately abated.

Scowling at the innocuous notebook, Fullmetal considered. There were transmutation circles hidden in the writing, that much was obvious.

"So, I'll show them to Colonel Smug and let _him_ figure it out," he thought at the voices.

"Like he could."

Fullmetal's head jerked up.

There was a boy sitting on the opposite side of the table. He had one booted foot balanced against the table, and long, blond hair covered his eyes as he tilted his chair back on two legs. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling.

"How did you—?" Fullmetal started.

"Why do you want to decode the notes anyway?" the boy asked, never looking at him. "Just because that guy gave you orders?"

"It's my job. I—"

"Your job." The boy snorted. "Why did you become a State Alchemist?"

Fullmetal faltered. "I... I don't know. I can't remember—"

"Not good enough." The front legs of the chair slammed to the floor, and the boy finally looked him in the face. "Tell me. Why did you become a State Alchemist?"

Fullmetal could only stare back into the boy's golden eyes.

"I..."

"Elric? Elric, are you okay?"

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Fullmetal jumped. Twisting away with a cry, he tumbled into the floor.

"Elric!"

Breathing heavily, he looked up to find Mustang staring down at him in consternation.

"I..."

Grabbing for the edge of the table, he pulled himself up and looked toward the other chair. But, there was no one there.

"Elric?" Mustang asked again, carefully.

He hadn't seen the boy.

Fullmetal quickly fumbled to regain his seat.

"I'm fine. I'm fine."

Aside from his voices shifting to some form of visual hallucinations. Wonderful. But, there was no help for it. He had spent too much time in the hospital already. And, the doctors were useless against the voices.

"I just slipped off this weird chair thing," he added.

Mustang didn't look like he believed him. But, after a pause, he snorted quietly.

"Well, I hope you didn't stab yourself on one of those ghastly teeth," he said.

"I'm fine," Fullmetal growled. Then, he reached for the little notebook and shoved it at Mustang. "Here. First page. The writing forms a transmutation circle. Or pieces of one anyway." The voices were oddly quiet now. "You trace it off. I'm… I'm not seeing too well with these new glasses."

This time, Mustang's face was unreadable, but he felt the disbelief just the same. Still, the Colonel silently nodded and accepted the book.

The hours that followed were torture. The boy/voice had been right; Colonel Smug was an _idiot_.

"Are you sure you drew this right?" Fullmetal squinted at the traced curve, a perfect quarter of a circle. Congratulations. Mustang had a steady hand. Bare minimum for being an alchemist. Shame his attempts to transform the strangely written I's and other letters into the runes that would convey the circle's purpose were completely worthless.

"I'm sure I can draw a circle, Elric," said Mustang. "As to the runes, I'm merely making an educated guess." He extended the notebook toward Fullmetal. "Please feel free to make your own."

Fullmetal stared at the book. In the back of his mind, he could hear a steady murmur beginning again. He opened his mouth to refuse.

"_That's an order, Fullmetal._"

That was right; the General had given him an order. And, the Colonel was useless. He needed to pick up the slack. Complete the assignment. Do something worthwhile.

He wanted to be useful.

"Is that really what you want?"

The boy was back, standing beside Mustang and giving him an odd, considering look.

For an instant, Fullmetal faltered. What he wanted. There had been something the other day. A name, a desperate need, a duty that came before all others.

Someone was waiting.

"_I want—_" he started.

"_Can you imagine the benefit to our country?_"

"_You'd be a hero._"

"_Amestris would be the safest nation in the world, the most prosperous._"

"_I want to be useful, to help_," he thought at the boy.

Then, he reached to take the book from Mustang.

"Idiot," the boy hissed.

And, the first wave of voices crashed down.

* * *

><p>Mustang made his way up from the basement wanting nothing more a quiet evening in his apartment with a bottle of something strong enough to empty his head for a few, blissful hours. The notes were steadily yielding new secrets. Fullmetal was almost back to his old self. Or his pre-seizure self at any rate. And, he wasn't sure anymore if he wanted any of it.<p>

He needed someone who could sift facts from the lies and half-formed theories. Someone with a keen mind for interpreting clues. Put simply, he needed Hughes.

But, he didn't dare bring Hughes any further into the mess now. Not after the way General Grand had acted at the hospital. He was probably under suspicion himself, but Grand still seemed confident that the Ishval threat would keep him in line. True, so far as it went.

Looking up to navigate the steps down from the National Library, Mustang paused. He had fully anticipated finding Hawkeye waiting for him. After the incident with Kimblee, she was more convinced than ever that he couldn't be trusted not to find trouble when left to his own devices. It wasn't true, of course. Hughes had found that trouble, so it was clearly his fault. But, Mustang couldn't deny that Hawkeye and her exemplary marksmanship would have been a valuable asset in the altercation.

Thus, the sight of her blonde head, hair up neatly in a clip, was not unexpected amid the various library patrons milling around the front steps. The snow that was softly filtering down from the cloud white sky was within the realm of expectation as well. What _was_ unexpected was Hughes standing beside Hawkeye, treating the stern lieutenant to the last twelve hours of his daughter's life, all meticulously captured on film.

"And then, she ran up to me and gave me a big hug!" Hughes gushed. "Of course, I couldn't take a picture of that since I was hugging her back, but you can see the grin on her face here from just before." He pulled out a second photo, his own grin stretching his face.

Hawkeye smiled. "Elicia has a very sweet smile."

"Doesn't she?" Hughes was beaming.

Hawkeye looked up then and the soft look in her eyes hardened back into her usual businesslike expression as she saw Mustang.

"Sir."

For an instant, Mustang envied Elicia Hughes her ability to elicit that vanished smile so freely. But, that kind of thinking was best left unexplored for the foreseeable future.

"Roy!" Hughes' smile was rather more manic and considerably less heartening. "I've been looking for you." Two long strides had him up the stairs. "Gracia asked me to invite you to dinner. She's making quiche, and the Lieutenant here tells me your schedule is free now that the library's closed." He threw an arm over Mustang's shoulders. "Which means you can't refuse. I've invited the Lieutenant too."

"Hughes, this is hardly—"

"She said yes!" Amazingly, Hughes' grin grew even wider. Then, it abruptly drooped a bit as his eyes settled on something over Mustang's shoulder.

Compelled, Mustang half-turned.

Fullmetal was coming down the stairs supported by his guards. Well, neither was actually touching him, though their hands were hovering close. Not surprising. He looked only marginally better than he had before six o'clock finally came and he agreed to stop for the day.

Halfway through the afternoon, Fullmetal had gone pale and started clutching his head. Afraid he might have another seizure, Mustang had tried to urge him return to the hospital or at least his quarters, but the older man had stubbornly refused. He had spent the rest of the afternoon rubbing at his temples and hissing obscenities under his breath whenever he thought Mustang wasn't listening.

"You know," said Hughes suddenly, "there's a man who could use a real meal."

He couldn't possibly mean… After the way General Grand had acted in the hospital. But, Hughes was already slipping past Mustang and inserting himself in Fullmetal's path.

"Elric! And, 2nd Lieutenants Heinkel and Darius, right?"

Thank goodness they had met Hughes only a few days before because the two guards' hands had immediately twitched toward their sidearms when he abruptly bounded into view. Good men, Mustang thought. Given the previous kidnapping attempt, it would be foolhardy to trust just anyone in uniform out of hand.

"You three haven't had dinner, have you?" asked Hughes.

Heinkel and Darius stared at him in confusion.

Fullmetal, despite his headache, seemed more lucid. "No dinner _or_ breakfast," he said. His tone was grumpy, but there was a certain plaintive whine in it.

"Well then, come to my place," said Hughes. "We've got plenty, and my wife's a fantastic cook!"

Heinkel and Darius traded a look.

"We have orders to escort the Fullmetal Alchemist back to the barracks," said Darius.

"But, he has to eat, doesn't he?" Hughes pursued.

Fullmetal's stomach took that moment to unleash a timely growl.

"We can get something from the mess," Heinkel started.

"Sure, the usual bland, tasteless offerings or maybe the fascinating meatloaf mystery meat." Hughes was a born salesmen. Although Gracia's cooking _was_ the real deal. "Gracia's quiche, on the other hand, is heavenly," he continued. "What's more, our house is just a few blocks away, and Roy's coming to dinner too." He swept a hand out toward Mustang. "Between all of us, it's probably safer than the barracks. So, what do you say?"

When Darius' stomach growled, they all knew Hughes had won.

* * *

><p>The Hughes' home was a reflection of its occupants. Outwardly trim and well-kept, inside it was bursting with life. Photos lined the walls and cluttered every surface. Elicia's toys, while all neatly corralled in assorted toyboxes, were a presence in every room. And, the entire dwelling radiated the scent of fresh-baked apple pie.<p>

Stepping inside, Mustang sniffed appreciatively as he deftly flicked snow from his new umbrella. Maybe this wasn't such a terrible idea. Gracia's cooking was better for clearing the head than any stiff drink. Hearing a scuffle behind him, he turned and immediately had to hide a smile. Fullmetal's burly guards had stopped in the doorway, suddenly self-conscious, stomping their boots and pawing at their hair. The frenzy of activity dislodged a small mountain of snow from their broad shoulders. And, seeing it only doubled the men's fluster as they moved to frantically shoo it back outside.

"Stop kicking at it like that! You're just spreading it."

"It's going to melt if we don't—!"

"Well, hello." Gracia Hughes' smile was as inviting as the scent of her cooking. "I see Maes found some more guests."

The two men shuffled sheepishly.

"Ma'am…"

Hughes appeared behind his wife. "This is my wife, Gracia. Gracia, these are 2nd Lieutenants Heinkel and Darius." He gently spun her to the side. "You know Roy and the Lieutenant Hawkeye."

Mustang shared an exasperated smile with Gracia.

"And, this is Edward Elric."

Mustang watched curiously as Fullmetal jerked his head up at the sound of his proper name. He had been ushered in ahead of his guards and now stood in a puddle of melting snow, looking somewhat bewildered. Then, some sort of comprehension seeped into his face.

"Ma'am," he rasped, inclining his head slightly.

Gracia smiled at him and then turned to include the others as well. "It's a pleasure to meet all of you. Now," her gaze swung back to Fullmetal, "you're soaking. Let me get you a towel."

Fullmetal could only blink owlishly as he was gently and efficiently steered out of his wet coat and trundled off to the bathroom. Clearly, Gracia Hughes was a good match for her husband. But, her voice was soft and the hand on his arm gentle.

Green eyes. She had green eyes. Like…

"_Mom, look what me and Al made!_"

Chubby little hands holding up a small, metal horse. A metal horse marked by the faint lines of a recent transmutation.

And, a woman with auburn hair and green eyes, smiling.

"Mr. Elric?"

Starting, Fullmetal realized that Gracia was offering him a towel.

"Oh, sorry," he said, reaching to accept it and start rubbing awkwardly at his damp hair. It gave him a moment to collect his thoughts.

A memory. Of his mother no less. Not unheard of. Her smile came to him now and then.

But, who had been with him in the memory?

"_Al._"

His voice and not his voice. Whispering up from memory.

Towel now on his shoulders in an effort to soak the damp from his shirt, he waited for the voices to descend. But, only a confused whisper answered him.

"_Careful, careful._"

"_Remember._"

"_Careful._"

"_Secret._"

That's right. It was a secret.

Which made no sense, but it _was_ a secret. He could feel it. And, he had no interest in pursuing it even if the voices weren't attacking. Instead, he focused back on Mrs. Hughes.

"Thank you," he said.

"It's no trouble." She smiled again. "Are you dry enough?"

"Yes."

Her eyes drifted over him, pausing at his right hand. "Oh. Automail."

For an instant, he tensed. Why wasn't he wearing gloves?

"That must be freezing!" Gracia continued. "I'll get you a hot water bottle to warm it up."

"Oh, no, it's okay."

But, she was already turning on the hot tap and tugging open a cabinet.

Surprised and grateful, Fullmetal just let her.

"Who's the boy, Mama?"

Blinking, Fullmetal looked down into an inquisitive pair of eyes that matched Gracia's. The hair was the same color too, but the wide curiosity in those eyes was all Hughes'.

"This is Mr. Elric, Elicia," said Gracia as she tested the water. "Your father invited him for dinner." Judging the water hot enough, she slipped the water bottle under the tap and began filling it.

"Oh." Elicia regarded Fullmetal for a minute. "You're very short for a mister," she finally ventured.

With effort, Fullmetal reminded himself that the child was very young, he was a guest, her father had promised him food and her mother was possibly a saint. It helped a little.

"I'm _compact_," he said through gritted teeth.

The little girl considered this. "Maybe you'll grow some more," she offered at last.

"I wish," Fullmetal muttered.

Hiding a smile, Gracia presented the full water bottle. "Here you are. Now, let's get you something to eat."

Fullmetal quickly decided that it was the best evening of his life. At least the portion of his life that he could remember. Not even being sandwiched between Heinkel and Darius, a position that inevitably highlighted his size, could dampen his mood.

The hot water bottle perched on his shoulder might have looked foolish, but its warmth gradually pulled all the awful, aching cold out of his automail port. That simple comfort was worth any amount of foolishness. His headache had vanished somewhere along the way. And then, there was the food. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen so much food. Fresh bread and ham and an amazing array of vegetables. And, the quiche. Which was wonderful, but Colonel Smug and Mr. – Lieutenant Colonel – Hughes were engaged in a silent but heated battle over it while Elicia giggled into her peas and Gracia and the unfamiliar female lieutenant pretended not to notice. So, he left them to it and concentrated on competing with his supposed guards for the ham.

They were fast for men so huge. Only a timely feint with the fork earned him the coveted last piece.

Sitting back with his prize, he smirked at the guards' disgruntled expressions. Especially Heinkel, who was looking vaguely murderous while nursing his stabbed hand.

Privately, Mustang and Hughes traded their own smirks. This, Mustang thought, was the Fullmetal he had known, however briefly, before that terrible Friday when the small alchemist had his "fit." He was a terror – though that fork maneuver might be useful against Hughes - but a terror was far better than the empty marionette he had been until the kidnapping.

It somewhat mollified the worry he had felt ever since Hughes dragged Fullmetal and his guards along. But, it didn't improve the situation. After General Grand's words in the hospital, the farther Hughes was from Fullmetal, the better. But, Fullmetal's invitation had been an afterthought. Hughes had sought _him_ out for a reason.

And, when Gracia went to the kitchen to collect the apple pie, Hughes made his move.

"Say, Roy," he stood so quickly his chair nearly toppled, "you haven't seen what we've done with the playroom, have you?" He was around the table in an instant. "Of course you haven't – you never visit. C'mon, let me show you while Gracia cuts the pie." With that, Hughes suddenly had a deathgrip on Mustang's arm, hauling him up.

Mustang shot a quick, not entirely feigned, look of pleading toward the kitchen. "But, I wanted pie."

"There'll be plenty," Hughes assured, dragging him from the room.

"I don't think you were paying attention to the other end of the table."

But, he let himself be pulled along, and they were soon alone in Elicia's playroom. It appeared to have been recently painted a pale pink, judging by the smell, and could have passed for a toy store. And, if he hadn't been distracted with other business, Hughes probably would have crowed over every detail with more excitement than a grown man should show over a pink room overflowing with stuffed animals.

Hughes' grin, however, was for something else entirely. Beaming, he reached behind an enormous white rabbit to produce a stack of papers. "Tada!" he proclaimed, presenting them to Mustang with a flourish.

"And, this is?" Mustang asked, accepting the document. The top sheet was handwritten in a neat, if hurried, hand.

"You wanted Fullmetal's file, right?" said Hughes.

"This is not Fullmetal's file."

The file had been typed and laid out in the military's standardized format. This was neither.

"Oh, but it is," said Hughes. "You see, I remembered that Investigations keeps some of our older case files in the library. Other old military documents are stored there too."

"Fullmetal's file was—"

"Gone, of course," said Hughes. "But! I spoke to this nice, young librarian just to make sure, and she remembered having read it while doing some filing."

"Read it?" asked Mustang, puzzled.

"That's the thing, you see." Hughes' grin hadn't dampened in the least. "I caught her just after one of the senior librarians had had some rather harsh words for her about reading on the job."

"She was reading personnel files… for entertainment," said Mustang slowly, testing his comprehension.

Military documentation could turn the bloodiest battles into a monotonous litany of times and dates. Only a dedicated professor of history would read them for amusement. Even shelving books would be more exciting.

"She's very passionate about reading."

Mustang sighed. "However passionate she might be, I doubt she remembers any more of it than Falman does."

And, sadly, Falman, with his amazing memory, had only read a portion of the file.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong!" Hughes crowed. "She quoted some of it for me, so I took her aside and tested her with some of the case files. She said she read them at the same time." Hughes jabbed at the papers Mustang held. "She's incredible, Roy! Anything she reads she can repeat back, word for word. Perfectly!"

Mustang stared at the pages in his hands. "You're not serious."

"Oh, but I am!"

"This is, word for word, Fullmetal's entire personnel file." It wasn't quite a question.

"Word for word," said Hughes, his grin smug now. "I had her do a case file too and compared hers against the library copy. Perfect."

The man was uncanny. With a bemused smile, Mustang tucked the copied file under the jacket of his uniform.

"I owe you one, Hughes."

"Ha! You owe me more than that," his friend laughed. "But, _I _get the librarian. I mean, a talent like that… and the library clearly didn't appreciate it." He shook his head woefully. "She starts in my department tomorrow."

"Did she have a choice?" asked Mustang.

"Of course!" Hughes looked vaguely wounded.

"Did she walk to the recruitment office under her own power?"

"…..Mostly."

Mustang shook his head. Then, the mirth slowly slid off his face.

"Hughes, I'd been meaning to tell you." He debated his words. "This – inviting Fullmetal to dinner, maybe even inviting me to dinner – it's a bad idea. Did you hear General Grand the other day?"

"When he was interrogating me about Major Archer?" Hughes asked.

"That and, after you left, he had more than a few questions about you, interspersed with impressing upon me the importance of secrecy," said Mustang. His dark eyes narrowed. "He's getting paranoid. He was already… rushed." He couldn't say more. Not now, not here. "And, with the lengths he's gone to hide Fullmetal's file… Did you speak to anyone besides this librarian of yours?"

"Sheska."

"Sheska then. Did you speak to anyone at the National Library besides her?"

Hughes was shaking his head, serious now. "Only to ask about case files. Which isn't new."

"And, Sheska?"

"Really, Roy, I've done this before." A ghost of Hughes' earlier smile touched his lips. "I told her I'd misplaced it, and, as it was very embarrassing, could she please not mention it to anyone."

"Good." Mustang huffed out a sigh. "Sorry to drag you into this mess. I'm probably overreacting, but…"

"Always trust your instincts." Hughes' smile was small but sincere now. "And, as to dragging me in... I promised to help you to the top, didn't I? I've been up to my neck in your mess for some time. Now," he threw an arm over Mustang's shoulders, "what's say we see if there's any pie left, eh?"

There _was_ pie left, but only because of Gracia and Hawkeye. Gracia had neatly cut the pie and served everyone a generous slice. But, given the way Fullmetal's guards were eyeing the remainder like starved animals, they would have gone at each other's throats to claim it if not for the women's presence.

Fullmetal, surprisingly, was otherwise occupied. Somehow, he and Hawkeye had struck up a conversation. About East City, where she had grown up.

"Yes, I remember that clocktower," the lieutenant was saying. "I was very young when they took it down, but, since they brought in an alchemist to disassemble it, everyone went to watch. It was very memorable."

Was the man _still_ on about that clocktower?

Over Hawkeye's head, Fullmetal tossed Mustang a triumphant smirk. Apparently, he was. Mustang ignored him in favor of concentrating on his pie. Because Gracia's apple pie was too good to be upstaged by juvenile antics.

But, all too soon, the pie was gone, and Fullmetal's guards were tossing nervous looks toward the door. They were right. It had been fun, but it was time for all of them to go.

Trading a glance with Hawkeye, Mustang pushed his chair back. "Dinner was amazing as always, Gracia," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality. But, the lieutenant and I should probably help escort Full—Mr. Elric here back to the barracks."

And, run interference with Grand if need be. If he played his cards right, Hughes wouldn't even be brought into it.

It proved to be a wise decision.

General Grand was waiting outside the barracks, his body a hulking shadow backlit by every available light. Behind him, other shadows milled, stretched long across the snow-covered ground. Grand had brought a small contingent of soldiers. And, while the darkness made it impossible for Mustang to discern if that vein in the general's temple was throbbing again, it couldn't quite hide the red of his face.

"Mustang!" The big man stepped forward with several soldiers at his back. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Sir?" Mustang let his eyes travel over the assembled soldiers with a flicker of deliberate surprise. "We were just escorting Elric here back to the barracks," he said.

"From where?" Grand snarled. "The library closed over an hour ago."

"Sir. After we completed our work at the library, Elric and his escorts joined the lieutenant and I for dinner," Mustang explained. "We needed to eat, and I assumed all of us would be sufficient defense." Concern drifted over his features. "I wasn't aware you were looking for us."

Grand studied him for a long minute, red face folding into itself as muscles tightened. His large hands, wrapped in the transmutation gauntlets he used to perform alchemy, twitched.

"I trust you know what you're doing, Mustang," he ground out at last.

Mustang took a breath and a gamble. "Yes, Sir," he said. "Elric was looking stressed after our research, and I thought he might need a quieter venue than the mess hall."

For a fraction of an instant, Grand's face started to loosen into something more natural.

"And, I was hungry," Fullmetal abruptly piped up.

Grand swung away from Mustang and toward the diminutive alchemist. "Hungry?" he rumbled.

Almost invisible between his guards' silent bulk, Fullmetal continued. "I was dragged off to the library without any breakfast," he said irritably. "Lunch was slop. I was _hungry_... I…." His voice broke off abruptly. "I… Sir! I meant…" Fullmetal had apparently finally remembered to whom he was speaking.

Even without being able to see it, Mustang was sure that vein was throbbing again because Grand's entire body stiffened. "Would you care to repeat that, Fullmetal?" he said softly.

"I was hungry, so I joined the Colonel and the others for dinner, Sir," said Fullmetal. His voice was clipped and oddly shaking.

"I have apparently not made myself clear, Fullmetal." Grand's voice was a low rumble. "I gave you an _order_." Fullmetal's entire body jerked, but Grand pressed on, leaning closer with every word. "No more risks," said Grand. "That's an order. No more little side trips for _anything_. That's an order as well." His continued advance had driven Heinkel and Darius reluctantly back. "You decipher those notes, and, until you do, you're to go nowhere but the barracks and the library while under escort. And, _that's_ an order." Grand towered over Fullmetal, his face purple in the wan light.

With every order Fullmetal had shrunk farther into himself. Now, he stood, suddenly smaller than ever, dwarfed by the general's bulk and shaking faintly.

"Do you understand, Fullmetal?" Grand snarled.

A jolt ran through Fullmetal's body. "I…" He slumped. "Yes, Sir." His voice was flat, empty.

As he watched Grand pull away, satisfied, Mustang debated the merits of incinerating the man. Hawkeye would back him up. Heinkel and Darius, judging by their stony, averted faces, could probably be convinced to stay quiet. It was only the other soldiers who might be a problem. But, a show of enough force could do wonders for loose lips.

Of course, all murderous intentions were gone from his face by the time Grand turned around.

"I trust you understand as well, Colonel?" he said.

"Yes, Sir."

He was starting to understand far, far too much.

* * *

><p>Maes Hughes neatly folded the dining room tablecloth into a bundle to be carried to the laundry. Half of it was a pristine white as always, but the other half was sporting some fascinating stains. The spatter pattern from the far end of the table made him wonder how often they fed Elric, or his guards. Frankly, he had seen neater crime scenes. Well, no matter. Gracia was unperturbed, confident she could get the stains out. If Gracia was unperturbed, all was well. And, seeing Elric transform into a normal human being, however poor his table manners were, had been worth the price of a new tablecloth if it came to that.<p>

"Daddy?" a sweet voice asked behind him.

Smiling, Hughes turned to find his daughter dragging a fluffy white rabbit nearly as big as she was by its left foot. With her free hand she was extending a sheet of paper toward him.

"This was with Mr. Snodgrass," said Elicia.

Mr. Snodgrass. Grass because rabbits ate grass. She was brilliant. And….

Hughes took the sheet of paper. It was covered in neat, handwritten script.

And, he wasn't nearly as brilliant as he thought he was. Good thing his lovely ladies could make up for his failings.

"Thank you, Sweetie," he said, stooping to give her a hug. "Daddy seems to have forgotten this."

Roy had warned him to be careful, so meeting at Command in the next day or so was out. Meeting at Roy's place was probably unwise too.

Well, Roy had only been gone for about thirty minutes. With any luck, he could catch him near the barracks.

Giving his daughter a warm squeeze, he disentangled himself. "Elicia, tell Mommy that Daddy's got to run and catch Mr. Roy. He forgot something."

"Okay." Elicia looked up at him with earnest eyes. "Will you be back in time to tuck me in?"

"Of course!" Hughes moved toward the hall closet for his coat. "I'll be fast as the wind. You and Mr. Snodgrass can count on me!"

* * *

><p>"<em>That's an order.<em>"

The general, face distended and discolored with fury.

"_Ed._"

The gentle, female voice.

"_Fullmetal, sit._"

A wide, too white grin.

"_Edward._"

_That_ voice.

"_Do you understand?_"

Uniforms and labcoats and pain.

"_Ed, Ed, Ed!_"

The voices, loud and insistent.

"_You will obey orders; no questions asked._"

The stuttering light of a transmutation reflected on a single gold tooth.

"_Brother!_"

The frightened eyes of the little boy who reached out to him desperately.

The world around Fullmetal was hazy. Nothing was quite real except for the cacophony of voices and memories roaring in his head.

He wasn't sure how or when he had gotten back to his new quarters. There had been at least one flight of stairs involved, and he vaguely remembered large hands lifting him when his shaking legs refused to function properly.

Which was absurd because his left leg always functioned properly. Auntie didn't make substandard automail.

But, no, they'd smashed Auntie's automail, hadn't they? After disconnecting and reconnecting it until his nerves burned and his stumps had no feeling left.

He seemed to have a leg now though. But, it buckled, following the lead of its weaker, flesh twin, and he found himself thumping down onto a mattress.

Oh, good. The floor would have probably hurt.

The floor in the cell always had. But, the guards were leaving now, so he was probably safe from that.

He reached to push his hair out of his eyes. It had been a tangled mess for so long.

There was no hair. That was new.

Maybe they had finally shaved it. They certainly commented on the length often enough.

Golden eyes swam into his vision.

A mirror?

No, the boy from this morning. The boy from this morning was crouched in the floor by the bed, watching him with worried eyes.

"I don't remember any of this," he said.

"_You were asleep_," the voice answered quietly.

"But, he wasn't," the boy countered.

"_No_," the voice was even quieter.

"Are you talking about me?" Fullmetal asked. He tried to growl the words but wasn't sure he succeeded. "At least say it to my face."

The boy's eyes narrowed. "Don't talk. They're still outside, and they'll think you're crazy."

"I _am_ crazy," Fullmetal hissed.

The boy scowled at him. "What do I have to do?"

"Go away," said Fullmetal. "That would fix at least half my crazy problem."

But, the boy apparently wasn't asking _him_. Rude little brat.

"_You know what you have to do, Edward_," said the voice. "_We had all hoped to avoid it, but there's no longer another way. You've gone too far already_."

The boy shook his head violently, tossing long, blond bangs. He had had hair that long once.

"If he finds out, he'll tell them!" he yelled. "I can't—! Al… Everyone else!"

"_He is already going to find out, Edward. The process is too far along_."

The boy snarled impotently at empty air. Then, his bright eyes locked on Fullmetal's.

"If you betray them all, I will kill you," he hissed. His hands clenched. "Don't you dare—! There has to something in there that remembers, that understands." He grabbed the sides of Fullmetal's face. His touch was echo and memory. Inescapable as it was intangible. "Do you hear me?" the boy screamed into his face. Fullmetal realized for the first time that the boy's right hand was automail. "You have to protect them!" the boy continued. "You have to protect _him_! _He's your brother too!_"

_Brother_. _Al_.

The world went white around the edges.

* * *

><p>Blowing into his icy hands, Maes Hughes wished for the third time he had thought to grab his gloves as well as his coat. Even in his pockets, his hands were starting to feel like blocks of ice. Well, no help for it now. The barracks were only a block or two away. At least he had remembered his hat because the snow wasn't showing any signs of letting up. The deepening powder on the sidewalks had slowed his progress enough that he had cut across a side street with the hope of catching Roy as he left the barracks to head home. It was a longer route but probably safer. Really, Roy had better thank him for this.<p>

"Thank me _and_ come to Elicia's next birthday," he said aloud. "It's the least he could—"

Something moved. Dark against the snow. He started to turn. And, the corner of the nearest building exploded in a spray of shattered brick and mortar.

Something hard and heavy collided with his head, and the world spun. His feet went left, his body right, and, he was tumbling to the snow-covered sidewalk. Everything was a blur save one, clear fact. He was being attacked. He rolled onto his back, fumbling in his right sleeve for the knife hidden there. But, his fingers were cold and clumsy and another hand was suddenly closing over his. A hand wreathed in stuttering blue light.

"Uh, uh, uh. Not _this_ time."

That voice!

A choked scream exploded from Hughes' lips as a horrible searing heat burned up his arm from the point of contact. Almost immediately, a second, glowing hand closed around his throat. The pain was even worse this time.

Burning, like a fire inside. Like being torn into little pieces.

Then, the agony eased to stabbing ribbons of pain as the hands loosened. Gasping, Hughes looked up into a pale, grinning face. A familiar face.

"Just when I thought this night wouldn't be any fun," Kimblee purred, releasing him. "With the general and all those soldiers crawling around the barracks, it seems Fullmetal got a reprieve again. But then, here you were, all alone." His smile widened and he leaned close, hazel eyes wide with a terrible delight. "You know what alchemists say – equivalent exchange."

Hughes felt cold.

"You remember my little bluff about Fullmetal?" asked Kimblee. He held up his left hand, revealing a tattooed circle, fresh ink sealed over healing skin. "_This_ is no bluff, Lieutenant Colonel Hughes. Your body's natural phosphates are already slowly transmuting into white phosphorus." He drew away and stood smoothly. "Enjoy your last fifteen minutes or so before the transmutation completes. Maybe you'll have time to make a phone call or something."

Letting out a sharp bark of a laugh, he stepped over Hughes' prone form and out of sight.

"No!"

Hughes forced himself into a sitting position and searched wildly for the rogue alchemist. But, Kimblee was gone.

Swearing, Hughes staggered to his feet. The world was an unfocused mess of white and black. His glasses were gone, lost in the snow somewhere. Blood was steadily dripping over his right eye. And, he _hurt_. Deep down something was still burning.

But, it didn't matter.

"Not like this," he muttered.

He reached for the wall of the damaged building. Bracing himself against it, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

He couldn't die like this.

He _wouldn't_.

What had Kimblee said the other day?

Ten minutes until it was irreversible. The barracks were only another couple blocks, and Kimblee had mentioned a general and soldiers. If he could just reach the barracks, there might be an alchemist.

One foot in front of the other.

It burned. Everything burned. Why was it burning?

Was it injuries from the explosion or the transmutation taking place inside him?

It didn't matter. He had to reach the barracks. He had to make it home. Gracia and Elicia were waiting for him. He couldn't disappoint them.

One foot in front of the other.

* * *

><p>Remember. Protect.<p>

Listen. Obey.

Lost in the maelstrom, Fullmetal fought to stay afloat. To sort through the conflicting thoughts. The voices were silent. It was only his own voice that warred with him now.

Al. Alphonse Elric. Little brother. The boy with blond hair and warm brown eyes who was so often at his side in those wisps of memory that broke through the fog.

He had to protect Al. Mom had told him to look after Al. Al was all he had, his only family. Al was the reason…

"_Why did you become a State Alchemist?_"

A darkened room and an improbably balanced golden chair.

"_I made a promise—_"

To serve the state. To make Amestris a better, safer country. To be useful.

No. That wasn't—

"_An order, Fullmetal._ _Decode the notes. That's an order._"

He would. He would obey. He would be useful.

Al… Al wasn't here. Al was a secret. But, Al had nothing to do with the state or his orders.

So, it was okay. There was no conflict.

Fullmetal found himself on the edge of his bed, gripping the mattress tightly with both hands as though it were a lifeline. His entire body shook faintly. Loosening his grip, he sucked in a deep breath and tried to steady the shaking.

It was okay. He was still obeying orders.

The golden-eyed boy was giving him a disgusted look.

He didn't have to take that from a hallucination. Forcing himself to stand, Fullmetal pushed away from the bed, away from those eyes. Stumbling against the desk, he looked out his partially blocked window.

Outside, the city glittered under a fresh, white blanket. The few lights at the back of the barracks reflected off the new fallen snow and gave the street below a dull glow. It was quiet, empty. The only sounds were the soft murmur of the soldiers stationed outside his door. The neighboring rooms were oddly silent. Everyone else must be out. Was it Friday? He couldn't remember. It wasn't important.

He just wanted it quiet in his head, and that was all that mattered.

It was cold near the window, frigid gusts still creeping around the aging frame. He welcomed the chill. The cold air might clear his head. Clear away the thoughts, the memories.

Al.

No, he didn't want—

Reaching over the desk, he jerked the latch and flung the window open wide. Snow and icy wind rushed over him and swirled into the room. Fullmetal leaned into the blast and drew a deep breath. Air so cold it burned rattled down his throat.

He welcomed it, the cold and the quiet, half-dark streets beyond.

Cold and empty and numbing so he didn't have to think.

Something moved below. A figure in blue moving sluggishly through the snow.

Just a soldier then, returning to the barracks. Drunk judging from the way he was weaving.

But, there was something…

Unwillingly, Fullmetal focused on the stumbling figure. Dark hair and an angular face oddly devoid of glasses. Lieutenant Colonel Hughes? What was he doing here?

As he watched, Hughes staggered and fell. A strangled curse floated through the still air as the fallen man thrashed in the snow, struggling to stand. But, his movements were awkward and uncoordinated. And, the churned snow around him was slowly turning red.

Red.

A face, what had been a face, soaked in red until it ran down the street and puddled at his feet.

No!

He was on top of the desk and poised in the open window when General Grand's words stopped him.

"_You're to go nowhere but the barracks and the library while under escort. That's an order._"

An order.

Nevermind. There were soldiers all around. Eyes locked on Hughes, he opened his mouth to call to the guards.

Even at this distance he could see that Hughes' face was a bloody mess. Blood was oozing from his mouth, his nose. He was probably bleeding internally. Like before. Like back in the alley. Like the injuries from the man who killed State Alchemists. The man with the scar. The man who used alchemy to destroy his victims internally.

"_He's going to die._"

The boy was beside Fullmetal, watching the scene below with tortured eyes.

"No! He can't!"

He had only just met Hughes, but one evening had shown him enough. A bright, friendly smile, a warm home with kind Miss Gracia who reminded him of Mom and little Elicia.

No!

His hand quivered against the window frame.

What was he thinking? He just needed to call out, and the guards would go down to help. They would call for a doctor. They could save him. They could—

"_You know they can't._"

But, _he_ could.

Absurd. He wasn't a medical alchemist. He was barely an alchemist at all.

But, he was—

Whispers crept across the back of his mind.

The voices. Hundreds, thousands of voices in his head. Each different, each individual.

The Philosopher's Stone was—

He sucked frigid air in with a choking gasp and turned wide, wild eyes on the blond boy.

"This is— I have—!"

The boy looked back at him sadly. "_They are, yes._"

"_Bring me the information on how to make a Philosopher's Stone. That's an _order_._"

Fullmetal shook. The Philosopher's Stone was—

He looked down at snow dyed crimson. Like the crimson stains in the sand on _that_ day.

"_You can't be serious! The entire city?_"

"_There are five units already in there._"

"_My brother's in one of those units._"

"_What do you need us to do?_"

Anonymous blue uniforms dissolved into hopeful, earnest faces. Suddenly, he wasn't alone because they were fighting for the same thing.

Until they died. Cut down as they fought beside him.

Like this new man in blue, leaking his life out into the snow.

"_That's an order, Fullmetal!_"

The Philosopher's Stone was—

"_Brother!_"

Al. Al wasn't dead like the others. But, he was waiting. Still waiting, all this time.

"Why?" he demanded of the boy suddenly. "You were going to save Al with the Stone! Why didn't you—? Why wait?"

The boy turned blazing eyes on him. "_I never got the chance. And, it's _their lives_, you idiot!_"

A blue clad form leaping in front of him, blocking. Cut apart by ebony talons.

A dark-skinned girl with pink dyed hair and a sad, hopeful smile.

The Philosopher's Stone was—

Lives. So many lives already lost. Because of his mistakes. Because he couldn't stop it.

But, now—

"_That's an order, Fullmetal!_"

Fullmetal clutched his head.

"_You will obey orders; no questions asked._"

"_Do you understand, Fullmetal?_"

Obey.

"_You three haven't had dinner, have you?_"

Obey.

"_Listen, Fullmetal. You will obey all superior officers like any soldier._"

"_Orders from any officer with a rank of Brigadier General or higher are absolute._"

Obey.

"_Oh. Automail. That must be freezing! I'll get you a hot water bottle to warm it up._"

Obey.

"_That's an order, Fullmetal!_"

"Help me," Fullmetal whispered. He reached for the window frame again, automail fingers gouging holes in the wood. "Please. I want…"

Obey. Follow orders. Be useful.

His face was oddly wet.

"I want to help him."

Obey.

The golden-eyed boy was watching him almost hopefully. Then, fresh sadness crept over his face.

"_You don't know what you're asking them._"

Because he would need the voices' help. Because they would have to offer—

"_It's okay._"

"_Want to help._"

"_Already dead._"

"_Save him._"

The boy's mouth twisted into a sad smile then, and he shook his head. "_Idiots._" He took a step back.

Slowly, Fullmetal released his grip on the damaged wood and brought his hands in front of his chest.

Obey.

"_That's an order, Fullmetal!_"

Obey.

"_You are the Fullmetal Alchemist. State Alchemist registration code 100310._"

Obey.

Fullmetal focused his eyes on the ground below and the dying man he meant to save.

"My name," he hissed, "is Edward Elric."

Something inside him tore away, and his hands came together in a sharp clap.

* * *

><p>My runner-up choice for Ed's State Alchemist registration code number was 24601.<p> 


	13. Book 2: Chapter 13: With All My Might

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> June 15, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Violence, blood and named character death.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Ed is finally back! Trust me, I was waiting for that too. Also, thanks to anonymous reviewer Jess for catching my grammar blunder last chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 13: I Gotta Fight With All My Might**

Heymans Breda filed off the train with a line of fellow travelers and turned his face toward the sunny sky appreciatively. Early winter on the edge of the eastern desert certainly had its perks. He had taken his coat off hours ago, and the warm vest he had put on back in Central was starting to feel downright hot. Thank goodness he had skipped the uniform entirely. Not that it was suited for this kind of work anyway.

Well, he could enjoy the milder weather for so long as he was here at least. Breda turned his attention to his surroundings. The modest depot was lightly crowded with disembarking travelers chatting and collecting luggage. Youswell was certainly a busy place for being so far off the beaten path. During the trip, he had learned from the talkative man across the aisle that most of the travelers were here to work the mine, which had recently discovered a new coal seam. Surveying what he could see of it, the town seemed to be booming, Breda mused. A line of businesses designated the main street. Cheerful signs advertised an inn, barber shop, dry goods and a variety of taverns.

Stepping away from the depot, Breda angled for the largest establishment. Its weathered sign was freshly painted and proudly proclaimed it the best – and only – inn in Youswell. Just inside, he found a bustling tavern filled with dusty men fresh from their shift in the mine. Well, no telling what the rooms were like, but the locals seemed to approve of the booze.

A gray-haired man with a face like old leather and the burly build of a miner waved him over to the bar with a wide smile.

"Passing through or here to work the new mine?" he asked.

"Passing through," said Breda, taking a seat. "So, what do you recommend?"

"The steak and ale," said the older man quickly.

"I'll just have some pork and a beer then."

For a minute, the man gave him a long, steely glare. Then, he laughed. "A smart one, I see. Let me give the Missus your order. She and the girls will take care of it."

While he was gone, a number of the men from the train entered. They quickly made their way to the bar and, upon his return, the gray-haired man found himself bombarded with orders. He took them all with a smile and, Breda noticed, managed to lure more than a few of the newcomers into higher priced purchases. If their fleeing conman really was in town, Breda hoped he wasn't taking notes.

Some time after his food had arrived, the hubbub died down a bit, and Breda found himself alone at the bar as the new miners spread out to speak with the oldtimers present. He waved the older man over to order more beer and make smalltalk.

"So, you retired from the mine?" he asked.

The man laughed. "Retired? Not hardly. I still work a shift and run this place too. My son, Kyle, and I trade off. He's on shift now." He leaned against the bar, scanning the room before returning his gaze to Breda. "So, what's your name? I'm Halling."

"Breda. Came in from Central."

"All the way from Central?" Halling arched a brow. "You planning to cross the desert?"

"No," said Breda, "I'm here looking for someone." He kept his voice low. "Guy who likes to con people, usually using alchemy. Made a fool of one of my bosses."

Halling regarded him shrewdly. "Is this guy likely to be trouble here?"

"Mostly, he just likes lightening pockets."

"Mmm…" Halling was treating him to an odd, considering look. "Alchemist, is he? We don't see a lot of those." He began cleaning the bar. "We hire one for the mines, but he's been here years." He glanced at Breda, who was already shaking his head. "Good then." Halling grinned. "Wouldn'tve believed you otherwise. Jacobs is a good man. No one better to find coal seams or notice instabilities. And, a lot of us owe our lives to him creating an airway during the last cave-in. Wouldn't have made it 'til they dug us out otherwise."

Breda started to ask why this Jacobs hadn't just created an escape tunnel and stopped himself with a mental snort.

"_I've been around State Alchemists too much._"

There was no way an average or even above average alchemist could transmute so much matter at once. Even among State Alchemists it would be a rare talent – someone like the Strong Arm Alchemist maybe. And, anyone capable would likely hesitate for fear of triggering a secondary collapse.

So, Breda just nodded. "Sounds like a good man. I don't think this clown I'm after has any useful talents. He's tricky and good with his tricks and how and when to use them, but not particularly skilled."

Halling frowned, thinking. "You know, Jacobs mentioned that he was putting up a traveling alchemist," he said. "I wondered if he was considering taking on an apprentice."

Breda leaned forward. "That might be my man. His alchemy may only be good for parlor tricks, but he's a first-rate conman."

"It's not a job a conman can handle," Halling growled.

"And, given the chance, he'll probably disappear before anyone catches on," said Breda. "So, where can I find this Jacobs?"

Halling gave him another curiously thoughtful look before nodding as though to himself. "I'll show you."

Youswell's resident alchemist was, by all appearances, the sort of average, small town alchemist you found scattered across the country. He lived toward the edge of town in a modest home that looked no different from its neighbors. And, when Halling knocked on the door, it was answered by a middle-aged man with glasses perched low on his nose and a thick book in one hand. More books filled a shelf to the left of the door and, over the man's shoulder, Breda could see light glinting off glass beakers and tubes.

Yeah, typical small town alchemist's home. Books, books and more books with a small home lab for testing new theories. Simple. Practical. Born to working class parents, country alchemists were usually less like Central's flashy supermen and more like those handymen who turned their skill to inventing practical solutions for daily problems. Not nearly as entertaining maybe, but worlds easier to deal with. Safer too.

Most of the time.

At the sight of Halling, a concerned look crossed the alchemist's face.

"Halling? Is something wrong at the mine?" he asked. He was already moving to lay the book down.

"No, no. Everything's fine," said Halling quickly. "I just wanted to introduce you to Mr. Breda here. He's an alchemist just passing through town."

Only years of looking carefully bland kept the surprise off Breda's face. He almost started to correct Halling but stopped, catching a sudden wink.

Now, what was the old man playing at? Well, when you served under the Colonel, you learned to roll with what came along.

"Heymans Breda, pleased to meet you," said Breda.

"Oh!" The alchemist settled the book on his shelf and offered a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Breda. Arnold Jacobs." As they shook hands, Jacobs continued. "If you're wanting to discuss theories and such, I'm probably not the best source. Unless your interest is more toward geology?"

"Sadly, no," said Breda. "But, Mr. Halling here kind of strong-armed me into coming over."

Jacobs laughed. "That's Halling for you. Did he sell you the most expensive thing on his menu too?"

"No." Halling looked more than slightly disgruntled about that fact.

This time, Jacobs' laugh was a full one. "Never quit, do you, Halling?" He winked to Breda and added conspiratorially, "He got me when I first came. Then, said not to feel too bad – the last alchemist he fleeced was a State Alchemist who ended up owing him so much he paid with the deed to the mine."

"The deed to—?" Breda tried to process that. "This State Alchemist owned the mine?"

Not unheard of. A State Alchemist's paycheck _was_ quite hefty. Invested well one could easily save up that kind of money.

"Bought it from a military official and transferred it to me the same day." Halling grinned. "Great kid."

"Don't get him started," Jacobs warned. "It's his favorite tall tale. His magic State Alchemist boy. The one who rebuilt his inn by clapping his hands." He rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

State Alchemist boy. Clapping his hands.

Breda resisted the temptation to shake his head. How did the Colonel always know?

"It's all true!" Halling defended. "You can ask any of the men who were there." He turned to Breda. "It was thirty years ago, but you must have heard of him in Central. Youngest State Alchemist in history. They called him—"

"Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist."

Breda looked past Halling to find a woman standing on the wooden boardwalk behind them. Faded blonde hair was pulled into a neat bun and blue eyes sparked with curiosity over a small pair of spectacles.

"I haven't heard that name in decades," she continued.

"You know Halling's magic boy?" Jacobs asked, surprise clear in his voice. Then, remembering his manners, he addressed the other men. "This is Clara. She's staying next door with Mrs. Jenkins and might be assisting me some in the future." He waved a hand at Breda. "Clara, this is Mr. Breda, an alchemist from Central."

As he exchanged niceties with Clara, Breda shot Halling a look. _This_ was Jacobs' new assistant? So much for tracking down that conman.

"You were talking about the Fullmetal Alchemist earlier?" Clara asked after a moment. "I met him once, back in Aquroya."

It had been obvious that the Colonel had not sent him off, first to East City and then, abruptly, to Youswell just to root out one rogue alchemist. The man was a nuisance, but he wasn't _Mustang's_ nuisance. No, Breda knew, Mustang had sent him east because it connected to that Fullmetal guy. And, that Fullmetal guy was somehow the key to the mess General Grand had dumped on Mustang.

Complicated. And, pretty common where the Colonel was concerned. But, that was part of why Breda loved serving under him. You didn't find these kinds of challenges under most commanding officers. Not the crazy kind.

Though this hadn't gotten crazy. Except in the sense of the Colonel somehow knowing to send him to exactly the right people. Because the odd gathering on the street had turned into some kind of bizarre, "I once met the Fullmetal Alchemist," party. The little group had shifted to Jacob's tiny home where things had quickly moved from Halling's firsthand account of Fullmetal's swindling one Lieutenant Yoki out of the deed to the Youswell mines to Clara's memory of Fullmetal capturing the costumed jewel thief Psiren in the sinking city of Aquroya. Then, they continued on to less reliable, but no less colorful, stories about how a friend of a friend saw the Fullmetal Alchemist take down a chimera or a fellow passenger on a train swearing blind that the Fullmetal Alchemist once punched him for calling him short.

It was entertaining enough, and Breda made sure to mentally file every detail. Pieces of it seemed to mesh with his vague memories of Fullmetal's file. Which meant there was probably some truth in the tall tales.

"So," Clara asked him as Halling and Jacobs lapsed into a fresh, good-natured argument about what magic State Alchemist boys could and could not do, "had you ever heard of the Fullmetal boy?"

"Not until just recently," Breda admitted after a moment's thought. "Before my time. And, I'm guessing he's been out of the news for years." He arched a curious eyebrow. "He has in Central anyway." _He_ had certainly never heard of the guy until the Colonel's assignment.

"I don't think anyone's heard of him for decades," she answered, looking thoughtfully toward Jacob's small lab setup. "But, he was memorable. Did I mention it? I had to give him a shot while I was working at the hospital in Aquroya." She smiled. "He was worse than a little child, fidgeting and complaining at the top of his lungs. But, his alchemy was a match for any adult."

"Guess that's why they made him a State Alchemist."

"Yes." Clara's blue eyes were distant for a moment. Then, she turned back to Breda. "It's odd that someone like that disappeared from the spotlight before he was even grown. With his talent, he should still be a well-known alchemist."

Not odd if he'd been captured by Drachmans and the government didn't want to admit that they couldn't protect their prized child genius turned folk hero. But, that wasn't something a civilian, amateur alchemist or not, needed to know. And, knowing wouldn't change anything. The kid she had met was long gone and probably wouldn't remember her even if he didn't have amnesia.

"Maybe they settled him down in a lab somewhere," Breda suggested. He could offer that much of the truth at least.

Clara gave him a curious look. "You said something about hearing about the Fullmetal Alchemist recently?"

She was quick. But, he had already been planning to let slip what seemed safe enough. So, nodding, he answered, "A friend of mine in the military," well, the Colonel might qualify as a drinking buddy, "met a Fullmetal Alchemist recently. Any chance it's the same guy? He's not a kid, of course." Breda grinned wryly. "Though I hear he's not much bigger than one, and touchy about it too."

Clara's eyes widened. "That sounds like him."

"I thought maybe," said Breda. He grinned. "But, Roy didn't say anything about getting punched or swung around by his shirt collar." Though _that_ would be a sight worth paying for.

"Well," Clara smiled, "one would hope he might have matured."

* * *

><p>It was another hour before Breda managed to make his escape and finally get his belated meal. Fortunately, swapping stories had put Halling in a good mood, and Breda only had to pay a quarter of the price to have it prepared fresh. Also fortunately, phone calls were included with room and board for the night.<p>

So, as night fell and men fresh from the mines gathered in the main room to eat, drink and generally carouse, he found himself directed to the corner behind the bar where the inn's single telephone was housed. It might be a little early to catch the Colonel at his apartment – it was Friday after all; Havoc might have a new girl he could woo away. But, Breda figured he could call again later.

"Assuming the proprietor doesn't charge an extra 700 cens for every additional phone call," he muttered to himself as he listened to the phone make the cross-country connection. There was a ring, and then a second. "Huh, wonder if Havoc's new girl is blonde or brunette," Breda mused.

"She's a redhead, I believe."

Breda jumped at the voice. "Give a man a heart attack," he said. "Are you sitting beside the phone?"

"As a matter of fact I am," said Mustang. "So, what did you find?"

"Doesn't look like our man's in Youswell. At least, things here are quiet," said Breda, letting his eyes roam over the crowded room.

"Mmm, so I hear."

"I did run into some old acquaintances of that alchemist friend of yours," Breda continued.

"Did you now?" Mustang's voice was as casually bored as it had been since the conversation began, but Breda could hear the hitch of curiosity in it.

"Oh, yeah," Breda eyed the beginnings of a rowdy arm-wrestling contest. "All these years and they still talk about him. Sounds like he was quite the character back in the day. Both here and in Aquroya."

"Aquroya, huh?" He could hear a pen scratching faintly under the Colonel's words.

"Mm-hmm, something to do with a jewel thief named Psiren." Hmm, alcohol and arm-wrestling, and they were between him and the stairs. That wasn't going to be fun. "You really need to get him to tell you about it all. S'the kinda stuff you can't make up."

"I suppose I should ask him again sometime," said Mustang. "Well, if there aren't any leads there, I have a few places you might stop by on your way back." Papers rustled. "Xenotime for one." More rustling. "Oh, and, since you're already so far out east… I've learned that Major Armstrong is currently in the Ishvalan region, investigating some rumors of terrorists. It's a rougher crowd than I expect our man to associate with, but you never know." Mustang's tone lightened. "Sounds like the Major's had no more luck than you have. If it's quiet, maybe you two can take in the sights."

Like Liore.

"Yeah, if I get that lucky," said Breda. Not that "lucky" often constituted bumping across a searing desert to visit a ghost town. "Well, I'll be in touch."

"Good."

Hanging up, Breda turned to the task of making it to his room unscathed. And, preferably before someone threw the first chair. That's when the brawl would really start.

In the narrow alleyway beside the lively inn, a dark figure moved by the telephone box. Slim fingers cradled a crude facsimile of a receiver.

"Just who are you, Mr. Breda from Central?"

There was a crackle of alchemic light, and the tampered phoneline returned to normal. When the light died away, the alley was empty.

* * *

><p>Hanging up with Breda, Mustang shuffled the papers of Fullmetal's copied file in his lap. Ah, there was the entry on Aquroya. Even the military account made it clear this was another of Fullmetal's real life folk tales. A too-young State Alchemist imprisoned as an imposter by overzealous police, a sinking city, and a jewel thief. If he remembered it, Fullmetal could easily sell his story to a publisher.<p>

Assuming Grand hadn't ordered the last ounce of personality out of him.

Eyes narrowing, Mustang thumbed through the heavy stack of paper, arranging it into piles. Aquroya, unfortunately, was a dead end. The city, built over water, had been slowly sinking even in Fullmetal's day. It was uninhabitable now. Just like Liore.

He frowned. Maybe he should have sent Breda south to Dublith. Fullmetal's file had a suspiciously vague account of some kind of battle in Dublith. Streets and buildings damaged with no record of the cause beyond the note that Fullmetal fought "an attacker". Odd.

But, Dublith was too far south to easily explain Breda's presence, and the chance to get Armstrong, a State Alchemist, out to Liore was too tempting. Thirty years of shifting sands might have destroyed any evidence, but, if there was anything there, Armstrong was the best man to find it.

Mustang smiled faintly to himself. The seemingly useless personnel file was going to be worth its weight in gold. He really did owe Hughes for this one.

* * *

><p>The pain had crossed beyond agony some time ago. Now, Hughes just felt numb, disconnected. The world had pulled away, and he felt like he was experiencing everything from a great distance. But, that was the barracks ahead, wasn't it? A large boxy structure, cutting across his path.<p>

He fought to focus his eyes, to see through the darkness closing around him. General and soldiers, Kimblee had said. People, maybe a doctor. Where were—?

The snow abruptly rose to meet him.

No!

Hughes fought to stand, but his limbs only twitched uselessly, flailing ineffectually at the snow that suddenly felt more like mud.

No!

He had to move. He had to find someone. _Now_. Or he was going to die.

And, he couldn't die. He wouldn't!

He had promised Elicia he would read to her.

Gracia. Elicia. He couldn't leave them alone.

And, Roy. Roy would do something stupid if he wasn't around to stop him.

He couldn't die here.

He couldn't.

He couldn't feel the ground under him anymore.

"_So, this is it_," Hughes thought dully. "_Roy__, watch my girls…_"

For a heartbeat, there was silence, and then the world exploded in red light.

* * *

><p>Lifting his hand away from the unconscious man, Edward Elric tried to remember what it was to breathe. His entire body was still humming with the energy he had just harnessed. <em>That<em> was what it felt like to transmute with a Philosopher's Stone? Like standing in the heart of an inferno and trying to call it to heel. Those moments he had wrestled to command the Red Water reaction back in the Fifth Laboratory were nothing in comparison.

Though his desperation then had been even greater because... He tore his thoughts away from that dark path.

Now. He needed to focus on _now_.

He was here; he was awake. He had used the Stone, stabilized Lieutenant Colonel Hughes.

But, using the Stone meant…

Suddenly fearful of what he would find, he searched inward.

"_We are still here, Edward. The vast majority of us._" A wry chuckle. "_Though I must admit that I never used a Stone under quite these circumstances._"

"Oh, be quiet, old man," Edward muttered to himself, feeling a traitorous stab of relief.

Then, remembering the matter at hand, he laid his flesh fingers against Lieutenant Colonel Hughes' neck. The man's pulse was steady now. Good. He probably still needed a real doctor to look him over, but he should be safe.

Edward straightened and began to debate his options. He should leave. Leave and find some out of the way place to finish this once and for all.

"_Edward, you cannot mean to—_"

"It's what I should have done back then, and none of this would have happened!" Edward snarled.

"_And, Alphonse? Who will care for him here, alone in an unfamiliar city?_"

"I'll think of—"

"Hey!"

Edward looked up to find one of his bodyguards, the mustachioed blond one, looking out from his window on the second floor. Edward swore under his breath.

Then, aloud, he yelled back, "He's hurt!" He gestured down at Hughes. "Call a doctor!"

"What are you—?" Heinkel started. He cut himself off and, bellowing to his partner, drew back inside.

Edward scowled impatiently as he waited. There was a babble of distant voices, and, finally, the nearest door banged open to disgorge the burly twosome.

"What's going on here?" Darius asked as he strode up to Edward and the injured Hughes.

"How should I know?" Edward answered. "I just saw him out here, bleeding all over the snow. Did you call a doctor?"

"An ambulance should be on its way," Heinkel answered. He knelt and gently turned Hughes on his side. "What th—? Lieutenant Colonel Hughes?" His eyes narrowed at the dried blood smeared from Hughes' mouth and nostrils. Frowning, he looked up, over Edward's head. He held that position a moment, probably silently communicating something to Darius, who seemed to have positioned himself as a lookout.

Sucking in a deep breath, Edward ignored them and forced himself to focus. He needed to leave. Just tell them he had to go inside to get his coat, visit the latrine, anything. Then, out of sight, he could slip out the front.

"Well," he began, "you've got him taken care of. And, I'm freezing out here, so I'd better go get a coat." He took a step toward the building.

A large hand fell on his shoulder. "Hold it."

Edward rolled his eyes up at Darius.

"You're acting weirder than usual," said the large man.

Edward floundered for words. Words were not his friends tonight.

"Just one question," said Heinkel.

Edward stiffened.

"You didn't do this, did you?"

"_What_?" Edward spun around without thinking. "Of course not! He has a family!" And, anyone with eyes could see he loved them dearly. "He really— I think he—" Tried to help. Saw a human being instead of a tool. "His wife is so— She doesn't deserve to be—" Like his mother, always searching the horizon for a man who would never come home.

Edward stopped, breathing heavily. What was he doing?

Heinkel and Darius were trading another look.

"Okay," said Darius, "go back to your room." He waved a large hand at the barracks. "Just remember, we can't do anything if someone else reports this to the general."

Oh. The general _had_ told him not to leave the room, hadn't he? No, not told. _Ordered_. Edward tested that thought.

Nothing. He felt no guilt or inner conflict or even a particular desire to go back to his room. Grand's order meant nothing. Just more bellowing from another uniformed blowhard.

Edward fought a sudden, maniacal grin. If only Grand were here now. He could tell him to his face exactly what he could do with those _orders_ of his.

There was a roar from the street and a sudden crunch of metal on concrete. Edward started to turn. A car? He caught a glimpse of a military car half on the sidewalk. A hulking figure in blue already unfolding itself from the vehicle.

His heart sank. He really should learn to stop tempting fate.

"Heinkel! Darius!" Grand roared. "What is the meaning of this?" His eyes swept over the guards and abruptly locked on Edward. Surprise flooded his face for an instant before it was washed away in a rush of reddening rage. Hands rolling into fists, the general stalked toward the smaller man. "What are you doing out here, Fullmetal?" he snarled.

There were a lot of things Edward wanted to say. Most of them things that would make polite society blush. A couple of them things that might even make the guards blush. And, one really exquisite vulgarity the voice of an old soldier was whispering to him…

But, there were secrets he still had to keep.

Edward ducked his head. "I saw the Lieutenant Colonel out here. He was bleeding badly," he said, keeping his voice level.

"I _ordered_ you to stay in the barracks," Grand rumbled.

Without looking, Edward could feel the general towering over him. He searched for an excuse.

"I… Sir. I just saw the blood, and I—"

His words were lost in a dull boom as the ground shook under them. Windows rattled in their frames, and, somewhere, glass shattered. Edward jerked his head up. Grand had half-turned, body rigid. Over his shoulder, a column of smoke was rising above the city, dark against the night sky.

A door banged open behind him.

"Sir!"

Tense soldiers spilled out of the barracks in various states of dress.

"You!" Grand swung around to thrust a hand at the first soldier out the door. "Get on the line with Central Command and see if they know anything about this! The rest of you, go see what that was!" he roared. "And, send someone to report back as soon as you've confirmed it!"

With a few hasty acknowledgements of the orders, the men dispersed to their tasks. As the sound of their footfalls, muffled by the snow, faded, there was silence. Grand began to pace, muttering incoherently. Edward stayed where he was, hoping to be ignored.

"Sir, what about—?" Darius began, gesturing to Hughes.

Edward choked down a curse. That was right. He had acted to halt the absurd transmutation inside Hughes' body and repaired most of the damaged tissue, but he wouldn't trust himself and his confused mind with the man's life. Hughes still needed a proper doctor.

Grand glanced toward the fallen man and made an impatient slash with his hand. "Worry about yourselves. When this is settled, I'll have you incompetents court-martialed."

Edward felt his left leg twitch with the urge to kick the man. Right in the kneecap would probably do it.

No, that wasn't his leg twitching. His whole body was humming with energy again. As though anticipating something.

"_What is this?_"

"You are Basque Grand, the Iron Blood Alchemist?"

A new voice. But, it wasn't the voice that made every hair on Edward's body raise in recognition. It was a sense of power. Familiar power. Almost like a resonance.

Grand turned fully to face the tall man standing in the street. His eyes flicked over the broad shoulders and dark glasses. Over the pale, puckered skin visible on the man's forehead and extending below his eyes.

"You're the so-called "Scar" then?" said the General. His fingers rolled into fists with a faint click of steel.

The man, Scar, slowly removed his glasses, and Edward felt his feet slide into a ready stance of their own volition. Red eyes. Blood red. His hands rose in front of his body.

There was a yank on the back of his shirt.

"Move, Elric!" Darius hauled the smaller man back.

Scar ignored them. "Basque Grand, I come to bring—"

He got no further than that before Grand slammed his steel gauntlets into the ground at his feet. Blue light crackled up from the point of impact, drawing every available fragment of metal ore out in a sudden torrent of chains and spearheads that rushed toward the Ishvalan.

"I don't have time for nuisances tonight!" Grand bellowed.

Scar didn't seem to care about the General's timetable as he nimbly dodged the onslaught and rushed the larger man. With a roar, Grand met the charge with another wave of transmuted weaponry. Then, he was moving back, retreating as Scar avoided every projectile yet again and pressed forward. One step back. Two. And, Grand's gauntlet-wrapped hand came down on the hood of his car in an explosion of twisting metal. Wreathed in coruscating energy, a short, round form rose from the ruined vehicle.

Scar had an instant to realize what he was seeing before the crude cannon, still flickering with alchemic power, fired. The Ishvalan vanished in a cloud of thick smoke.

Having retreated toward the barracks with Hughes and Edward in hand, Heinkel and Darius both heaved a sigh of relief. Slowly, they lowered their sidearms.

"I think I've had enough alchemy for a lifetime," Heinkel muttered.

"You and me both," Darius agreed.

Grand lifted his hand from the twisted mess of the car. "Hmph, even easier than I anticipated," he said.

The ruined car groaned as though in response. Quieted. Then, ripped in half with a tortured shriek and a pulse of crimson light. A dark form lunged from the wreckage.

"_What—?_"

Scar's outstretched hand missed Grand's face by inches as the general swung away. Pulled by their momentum, the pair was sent several feet apart in opposite directions. It was all the opening Heinkel and Darius needed. A hail of bullets cut through the night air as they finally saw a clear shot.

"Che!" Ducking, Scar retreated toward the remains of the car.

"Stop firing, you idiots!" Grand bellowed. "I'll handle this!"

The two men lowered their guns slowly and traded an incredulous glance. Shrugging, they turned to the next most logical course of action. Heinkel moved for the unconscious man by their feet; Darius reached for the shell-shocked alchemist.

"Come on, Elric."

Edward jerked in surprise as he was hoisted off his feet. He caught a brief glimpse of Hughes in a fireman's carry over Heinkel's shoulder as he was tucked under Darius' arm.

"Wait! What're you—?"

"Getting out of here, obviously," Darius grunted.

"What?" Edward twisted his neck to see Grand, face contorted in a rictus of fury under the glow of a fresh transmutation. "But, the General—!"

"Said he'd take care of it," said Heinkel.

"And, before that," Darius added, "I'm pretty sure I remember him saying to worry about ourselves."

"But…."

Blood pooling at his feet.

Grand's purple face inches from his own, growling orders that wrapped around his mind like so many chains.

Edward let the words trail away, unsure what he wanted to say. Unsure what he wanted period.

Having kept Scar at bay with a fresh wave of transmuted metal, Grand sized up his opponent anew.

"So, tougher than I thought," he growled. "But, not enough!" The general lunged forward to slam his right fist into a fire hydrant.

Scar was already dodging away. Just as Grand had anticipated. Behind Scar, the water main leading to the hydrant tore its way up through the street, folding into a spearhead that rushed toward the Ishvalan's unprotected back.

Hearing it, Scar half-turned. This time, he was an instant too slow. As he swung aside, the spear buried itself in the mangled car, tearing through his left shoulder as it went. His dark glasses spun away.

A grunt of pain escaped his lips, but Scar shrugged it off. Instead, he lashed out at the pipe with his right hand. It exploded in a spray of steam on contact.

At the hiss of superheated water, Edward twisted in Darius' grip to look back. He could just make out Grand, silhouetted against the cloud of steam. With a dark shadow moving in from his left.

Edward didn't think. It was that night in the alley. It was that afternoon in Liore. It was every time he had failed and someone else had paid the price.

Not again.

Edward screamed as a gout of crimson light arced out of him. It leapt into the ground and tore between the two men, raising a wall of stone in its wake.

The world came to a standstill. Silence fell over the ravaged street. Broke as Edward heaved in Darius' frozen grip, spilling something that might have once been dinner into the snow.

Slowly, Grand turned. His eyes traced the torn snow back to the small, retching bundle under Darius' arm.

"Fullmetal," he said dumbly.

Edward hissed something vile into the night and looked up, spitting to clear his mouth. No use hiding it now. And, he had a comeback he had been saving for _decades_.

"I'm Edward Elric," he growled. "You can take that title and this watch and sho—"

Grand's laughter cut across him. "I was right!" he crowed. "You—!"

A pulse of power.

Scar's hand burst through Edward's hasty wall to clamp around the back of Grand's head. With a second pulse, the general's triumphant shout dissolved into a choked gurgle. Something dark and wet spattered across the broken snow. Then, Scar's hand withdrew. For a moment, Grand wavered, face frozen in his moment of triumph. A breath, and he crashed bonelessly to the ground.

Edward thought he might have screamed again. But, it was lost in the blur of motion as Darius spun around in a full run, following the line of the building.

The alchemist felt numb.

Blood on snow.

Blood on sand.

Why? Why, why, why?

"I can't… save anyone."

A jolt clicked his teeth together. They weren't moving.

Edward looked up. A tall figure rose in front of them, barring the way.

Swearing, Darius fumbled for his sidearm.

Edward had eyes only for the distinctive x-shaped scar.

"Who are you?" asked Scar. His gaze was focused on Edward. "He called you Fullmetal." The Ishvalan raised his right hand, cracking it ominously. "Tell me. Are you another of the state's cursed alchemists?"

Edward felt a hoarse laugh bark out of his throat. "I'm the most cursed alchemist the state's ever seen."

Scar's eyes narrowed.

"Not another step!" Darius yelled, leveling his gun on Scar.

The Ishvalan's stance shifted slightly. Edward saw it. Saw the change of intent, the change of target.

No.

Not again. Never again.

Scar lunged forward.

Edward freed his left arm.

"_I'm sorry. But, please…_"

His hand met Scar's open palm. And, his world exploded for the third time that night.

Anger. Pain. Confusion.

A roar of foreign voices.

"_What is this?_"

"_Let us out!_"

"_It hurts!_"

"_Kill you!_"

"_Amestrian!_"

Screaming with agony and rage, the foreign voices tore at Edward. Finally, here was an outlet on the world that had been stolen from them. Someone to tell of the pain and injustice. Someone to punish for the crimes against them.

"_Please!_" Edward was begging, crying, screaming.

It was like being torn to pieces. Flayed by the torrent of furious emotions and half-formed memories.

The terror of being trapped in alchemized walls as soldiers advanced with rifles at the ready.

The iron taste of blood.

The merciless sun withering the flesh of the dead and the dying.

Death upon death. An endless repetition of bloody memory.

It felt as though _he_ was dying. Again and again. Drowning under the memory of death, pulled down under the weight of stolen lives.

And, vaguely, he thought he had done this before.

"_STOP!_"

Across the maelstrom, ten thousand voices spoke with one intent.

A blissful hush descended.

And, death and the angry ghosts of Ishval retreated.

As the pain ebbed away, the world flickered back into being. It was an unfocused blur of light and dark, but Edward followed the echoes of power and pain throbbing down his arm, tracing them to where his hand met Scar's and then on, toward where the Ishvalan's face should be. In a flash of clarity, he saw that the man was staring at him with something like horror.

"Guess I'm not the only one cursed, huh?" said Edward. The words were a fuzzy slur as something wet dribbled over his lips.

Scar remained frozen, only his lips moved soundlessly.

"_Cursed._"

Red eyes wide, he yanked his hand free of Edward's and leapt away, disappearing into the foggy world beyond.

Edward stared after Scar. As the world slowly closed in around him, he could only process a single thought. And, a fresh expletive burst through his lips.

"There's _another_ one!"


	14. Book 2: Chapter 14: I'm Getting Out

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> June 22, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Just references to the last chapter's unpleasantness.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thanks to SageSK for the last minute check and letting me badger her while I dithered about details.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 14: I'm Getting Out**

**July, 1884**

The military's provisional command center in the Ishval province was a swarm of activity. Men and munitions were pouring in via the recently constructed train line. The stone corridors that had, until recent months, housed Ishval's local governmental offices now rang with a thunder of hurried personnel late into the evening.

One of the larger rooms had been made into the command center where General Hakuro was gathering his officers and poring over any information that came out of Liore. Currently, the discussion had shifted to the photographs recently taken from a surveillance balloon above the city.

Ignored, a small figure in blue sat in a chair against the far wall, a single photograph clenched in his shaking hands. The photograph that had gone equally ignored until he requested it in a choked voice he hadn't even recognized as his own.

Now, his eyes could only trace the pattern etched dark in the sands around Liore.

Were they blind? Were they all as stupid as that idiot, Hakuro?

His eyes cut briefly to his so-called sponsor as the man strutted around the long conference table, glorying in his command. The man who "discovered" the Fullmetal Alchemist.

And, sponsoring a twelve year old Edward Elric in the State Alchemist exam was one of the only useful things Hakuro had ever done for the young alchemist. The other…

"_I got the news that your brother had gone back home, Fullmetal. It really is for the best, you know." _Amazingly, a single look had silenced the man. Did he still look that awful? _" Anyway, I had any mention of him removed from your official records. It will be safer that way._"

Safer. Al was as safe as he could be. If you could call it that.

But, for once, Hakuro had meant well. He liked Al well enough. And, at least it would silence questions from the military.

One point to Hakuro.

Hakuro who was, currently, the bane of his existence.

Let him sit in on the planning and briefing sessions? A fine way for a young man to learn something of protocol and tactics. Let him contribute anything meaningful as the only alchemist present? No, this was a matter for adults, not children.

And, Hakuro, with his hypocritical concept of when Amestris' youngest State Alchemist was and was not an adult had made certain everyone present saw him as nothing but a child. Dressed in a tiny replica of the Amestrian military uniform, Edward Elric felt like a doll. He knew he did not look "proper" or mature. He looked like what Hakuro meant him to be - a toy soldier to salute on demand and look suitably patriotic for the press releases.

Ed felt his teeth grind together as he stood from his chair. He was nearly sixteen and due for a growth spurt any day. Who were they calling a microscopic little boy who would never grow and was doomed to be their cute little mascot forever?

Slamming the photograph down on the table with enough force that the wood cracked under his automail helped calm his fury. A little.

"This photograph from the hot air balloon," he began. Oh, good. They had noticed him. Finally. "It clearly shows a transmutation circle drawn around the entire city." A circle he recognized far too well. The same circle had been etched into the floor at the Fifth Laboratory. He had seen it every night since, in nightmare after nightmare. "It might be a trap."

It _was_ a trap. _Their_ trap. Those homunculi.

After a moment, Hakuro shook off the stupid, blank look that had overtaken his face at Ed's outburst. "Fullmetal! Sit down. This briefing doesn't concern you."

"I'm the only State Alchemist present, and I'm telling you this is a transmutation circle," Ed snapped, flashing his silver pocket watch at the assorted officers before tracing the circle on the photograph with his free hand. "Have another alchemist doublecheck it, but don't ignore it!" His eyes narrowed. "People don't draw things like this around their cities for fun!"

He could see concern filtering across several of the mens' faces. Good. They weren't all the sort of useless sheep Hakuro preferred.

The general himself was striding around the table. "Fullmetal, I told you you could attend this meeting on the condition that you remain silent!" Like a good little boy, except Hakuro should know by now that Ed would never be his definition of a good little boy. "Since you can't obey the simplest—"

"Ah, what seems to be the trouble here?"

Hakuro froze, staring over Ed's head. "I— F—Fuhrer, sir!" His entire body went rigid as he saluted so forcefully Ed wondered if he might hit himself in the head.

Slowly, Ed turned to face the Fuhrer himself, debating his options.

Fuhrer King Bradley stood in the doorway, wearing his usual pleasant smile. He was flanked by a bevy of aides and guards with an auburn-haired woman in a neat suit dress at his side. For a minute, Ed froze at the sight of her. With everything he had learned… And, she looked so _much_ like—

"So, what is this?" The Fuhrer's smile never wavered, but there was steel under his casual words.

Ed found his voice before Hakuro did.

"Sir," he began, grabbing the photograph and holding it up, "I was just explaining that there's a transmutation circle drawn around the entire city of Liore. I think it might be dangerous."

"Sir," Hakuro started, "it's nothing more than a scare tactic. Fullmetal is only—"

Bradley held up a hand, and the graying general fell silent. At his nod, the photograph was passed into his hands. For several silent seconds, Bradley studied it gravely.

"Mmm, the Liorans might be mounting some sort of attack," he said. "Something involving creating a wall perhaps? Do you recognize the purpose of this, Fullmetal?"

Knowing the question was coming didn't make it any easier to answer. The Fuhrer had seemed reasonable, even understandably outraged after the incident at the Fifth Laboratory. But, even then Ed hadn't revealed the true secret behind Marcoh's notes. Only some hastily edited babble about human experiments and homunculi.

"I…" Risks and possibilities weighed against one another in his mind. "It reminds me of the alchemy used in that incident three months ago, Sir. The classified one."

"Ah, yes." Bradley nodded. He addressed the room at large. "In that case, invading the city may not be the best option. What are our estimates on their available supplies?"

As everyone's attention swirled around the Fuhrer, Ed took a step toward the open door. They knew. Good. It made the Liorans look worse, but if the military would just stay out of the city, he could do something about that circle.

"Are you leaving?"

Startled, Ed looked up at the Fuhrer's secretary, who had been standing quietly by the door. Even her voice was achingly familiar.

"I…" He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Just to the latrine. It's been hours."

"I see." She stepped aside gracefully.

Eager to be far from the familiar stranger and his own growing suspicions, Ed started down the hallway.

"We wouldn't want an accident like when you were four, after all."

His entire body went rigid.

"The sheets had to be washed twice," she continued. "All because your brother was scared and you refused to leave him alone even for a few minutes." He imagined her green eyes were soft and kind as he felt her hand rest on his shoulder. "Where is your brother, Edward?"

So much like her. Even this smell was hers.

"I…"

"It's alright," she soothed. "You can tell me. I won't be mad."

She knew.

Ed tore himself out of her grip, feeling her hand disintegrate rather than fall away as he spun to face her. For an instant, he almost expected to see her as she had looked _that_ night, twisted and half-formed. But, she was as prim as before. Except for her left hand, which rippled unnaturally before returning to normal.

"You're…" he breathed. His left shoulder was wet where her hand had been. Breathing hard, he cut his eyes toward the conference room.

The woman just smiled.

Eyes wide, Ed turned and fled.

Astoundingly, Hakuro's foolish outfit stood him in good stead when he reached the small motorpool in the courtyard.

"I need a car," and a flash of his watch at a dozing pair of privates were all it took to acquire one of the desert-modified steam cars the military had commandeered. The endless minutes it took to remember what little he knew of cars and get the boiler to operating temperature were a blur. Then, he was rattling across the desert, fumbling to open the throttle even as he wrestled with the steering. With a full moon painting the desert sands white, he could just pick out the crude track that served as a trade route between Ishval and Liore.

He had to do something. Somehow, some way he had to destroy that circle around Liore or evacuate the citizens if he could. The homunculi would be there; his encounter with his sin embodied had insured that. They would be there, and they would try to stop him. He needed a plan. He needed to think.

But, he didn't want to think now. After seeing _her_. And, fighting just to keep this wretched machine on the nearly invisible road was already taking most of his concentration.

So, maybe, for a few hours, he could lose himself in this smaller, simpler battle, alone on the white road winding endlessly into the night.

* * *

><p><strong>Present<strong>

Muffled voices drifted over him. He let them slide past. There were always voices. These were somehow… different, but hushed and unthreatening. And, he was comfortable where he was.

"…and…. more questions."

"Least…. ….'s over."

A grunt. "For now."

"…saw anything like it. …light show."

These were not the usual voices. Except they _were_ familiar. And, there was something about their words… Curiosity pulled him inexorably from the quiet darkness.

"…this guy did?"

"… weird alchemy. ….less we know, the better."

"Yeah."

Weird alchemy?

Slowly, other sensations filtered through his waking consciousness. A familiar, pungent smell filled his nose. Disinfectant spread thick over the lingering stench of body fluids. A hospital. He was in a hospital. Again.

Something nagged at him. This was bad. But, he couldn't remember why. Aside from the fact he _hated_ hospitals.

On that note, this was the hardest bed or gurney he had ever encountered. Hard and oddly lumpy. Clearly, this was a dump of a hospital. He should move before some quack came along and started shoving some medical torture device in places where it had no business being.

Experimentally, he twitched first one leg and then the other, being careful to make only the smallest of movements. His flesh leg moved with nothing more than a twinge of stiff muscles. The automail responded smoothly, tapping lightly against his right leg in the exact sequence he intended. Perfect. He slowly drew in a deep breath and let it out. There was no telltale twinge from his ribs.

Right then. He was good to go. Anything else would heal on its own or require an automail mechanic rather than a doctor.

Carefully, Edward Elric opened his eyes. He was greeted by the sight of a spartan waiting room. Simple wooden chairs lined the wall directly opposite him with a receptionist's window to the right.

Well, that explained the "bed". He was lying across five – a glance – fine, _four_ wooden chairs. But, if he stretched out fully, it would take five, maybe six.

There was a low mutter to his left. Edward shifted his gaze, but could only catch sight of shoes. Two pairs of _large_, military issue boots.

Well, there went that escape plan.

For the moment.

He let his eyes drift closed and instead tried to remember what had sent him to the hospital this time. Or maybe it was someone else who had been sent to the hospital. It happened. Rogue alchemists and most revolutionaries were usually downright unreasonable about being arrested. Which was why it was their own fault they sometimes came out a little worse for wear.

So, what had it been this time?

Snow stained crimson. A smiling man with square glasses. A hulking man in blue with his face slack in a terrible, empty-eyed grin.

Edward felt cold all over.

"_It was not your fault._"

A voice. One of _the_ voices. Speaking to him by name.

"_Ah, I see the full blending has confused you._" The voice was soft and gentle. "_It's alright. We will not hurt you. We _never_ meant to hurt you._"

Not hurt him! They had—

Done as he asked. Helped him keep his secrets. Hidden him away from the pain and the constant, inexorable prying into all that he was.

His racing heartbeat slowed.

The voices were allies. And, this one, this calm, deep voice was oddly familiar. It had been with him for some time, yes, but there was something more. Something that whispered of long ago. Of a place long gone. Of musty books and a thick, cloying scent.

"_Who are you?_"

The answer fluttered just out of his reach.

"_I…_," the voice hesitated. "_In life, I was known as Van Hohenheim._"

Darius leaned back in his seat, prepared to put Fullmetal's sudden freakish abilities out of his mind. As he had said before, the less he knew about that stuff, the better. It had saved his neck, so he really didn't care how the crazy old man had done it.

And, fortunately, said crazy old man didn't seem to have any injuries. When they arrived, a harried-looking doctor had given Fullmetal only a quick examination before telling them to wait and hurrying away with the lieutenant colonel's gurney. They had had to catch a passing nurse to get any answers. From her, they learned that the night staff was stretched to their limits caring for soldiers injured in an armory explosion a few blocks from the barracks.

The explosion they had heard just before Scar's attack. Probably a deliberate distraction.

Darius' frown deepened. He glanced toward Fullmetal's slight form sprawled over the chairs to his right. The alchemist had passed out as soon as Scar disappeared and been dead to the world ever since. Maybe he had worn himself out with all that alchemy stuff.

Fullmetal twitched.

Or not. It looked like he might finally be waking up.

The thought had barely crossed his mind before Fullmetal was abruptly standing up on his makeshift bed, screaming obscenities at the far wall.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he roared.

Darius was fervently glad the insane alchemist wasn't looking at him. Of course, the fact that he wasn't looking at _anyone_ was a little worrying.

"You weren't there, so you couldn't have—" Fullmetal went on. "Why—? _How—?_"

"We could shoot him," Heinkel murmured, finally recovering from his own shock.

"You first," said Darius.

Because guns had worked so well on that Scar guy.

Abruptly, Fullmetal swung toward them, and it was all Darius could do not to cringe. But, the alchemist only stared at him in confusion and then sudden embarrassment.

"I— That was— Oh." He sat down quickly.

Darius took a minute to make sure the gray-haired alchemist wasn't going to lunge at him.

"You okay, Elric?"

"Oh. Fine." The alchemist treated him to a horrible parody of a smile that stretched his wrinkled face in ways a face should not stretch. "I'm fine. Great." He bounced to his feet. "Slept great, all ready to go." He turned himself around a minute, searching. Then, finding it, strode toward the door. "See ya'!"

Darius glanced at Heinkel. The blond man's dour expression was answer enough.

Yeah, he wasn't up to seeing how many times he could cheat death in one night either.

The room was bigger than Edward had first thought with rows of chairs behind the one he had claimed and morning sunlight bursting through a long bank of windows. A larger hospital then. But, he had eyes only for the nearest exit, a pair of solid double doors that would take him out of here and to some lonely place where he could figure out why his long vanished, very unlamented father was living in his head. He knew why the other voices were in his head. Mostly. It was fuzzy, and he couldn't bring himself to tease the tendrils of crimson memory out of the fog in his mind. But, they _should_ be there, as they had been for years. When had his father invaded?

Maybe he really was going crazy.

"_You are not crazy, Edward,_" his father's voice assured him. "_I… arranged for this some years ago, shortly after you were released from the hospital._"

"Real crazy voices always tell you you're not crazy," Edward retorted.

But, there was something to his father's words. A sunny day with a cloudless sky and a tall man grabbing him in the street. A stream of nonsensical apologies babbled in his ear and a flash of light. Dead weight staggering him and a confused sense of horror.

"_I am sorry, Edward._"

Edward growled and shook his head as though he could also shake away the memory. This wasn't the time for old memories. He needed to focus on more recent events. Reaching the door, he pushed his way out into the hallway beyond. His mind was worlds away, re-tracing the last events he remembered.

General Grand had died. And then…

The realization stopped him in his tracks.

Grand was dead. Grand was dead, and he was… free.

He was _free_. There was no one left who knew, who remembered. He could go anywhere, do anything. He could finally—

"Al." The name slipped through his lips in a whisper.

Suddenly filled with a purpose, Edward started walking again. He needed a plan. There had to be a way to design a transmutation circle that would destroy itself after use. And then… He needed someone to— Hughes. For a minute, he tried to remember the address of the Hughes' home. It was useless; he had only visited it once after dark. No matter. He could make a quick trip to the military records department. Hughes owed him now; the least he could do was to get his little brother a train home. Assuming home was still there. How long had it been? Was Auntie even still alive?

He was going to have to do some research. There was so much he didn't know, had missed while stumbling along in a fog. But, that was okay. He had time. He just had to be quick and discreet.

He wished he could see Al's face. Just one more time. Perhaps the Gate would allow him that much when he made the exchange.

"_Edward…_"

"_It's how it has to be, old man,_" Edward growled in his mind. "_I should have known there was no other way back then._"

He clenched his steel fist and tried not to wonder if his brother would suffer for his missing parts. Maybe he could find a solution for that as well. His automail wasn't flesh, but it _was_ mass. There was an equation in his notebook where—

Ten feet from the main entrance, the alchemist's wild thoughts ground to a halt.

His notebook. Grand had his notebook.

Edward snarled a curse.

He wasn't free yet. Not until every scrap of those notes was destroyed.

So, where—?

Of course. Grand was too paranoid to have kept the original notebook anywhere but on his person. Now, he was dead. And, this was probably the closest hospital to the fracas.

For once, luck was on his side.

Edward whirled around and headed back down the hall, searching for a stairwell. The morgue would be in the basement. He just had to find it, find Grand, swallow his revulsion and… Well, maybe they had removed his effects by now.

A few hurried paces at last brought him to a simple stairwell door. He reached for the knob, and nearly fell as it pulled away under his hand.

"Ah, going somewhere, ?"

Startled, Edward looked up to find an unfamiliar uniformed man on the other side of the door. He had a pale face and paler blue eyes set above a knife-sharp nose.

"Or should I say, Fullmetal Alchemist?" the man asked.

Edward took a step back involuntarily.

"Major Frank Archer with Investigations," the man introduced himself, stepping free of the doorway. "I believe you encountered the elusive State Alchemist murderer earlier tonight?" He smiled thinly and looked Edward up and down. "And, escaped uninjured? Excellent. I'm going to have to request you come with me to answer some questions."

No! He had to—

Major.

"I'm sorry, _Major_," it was always fun to stress rank when he knew people were letting his age make them forget his own standing, "but I have some business to attend to."

Like looting corpses. But, it was his own property he was "looting," so it didn't really count.

"Ah," Archer tilted his head slightly in thought. "Were you going down to examine Scar's handiwork firsthand? The opinion of a State Alchemist is, of course, always valuable in such matters."

Edward tried not to smirk. He really did.

That was right – State Alchemist. With a rank equal to that of a major.

"Or perhaps," Archer continued, one hand reaching into his jacket, "you were looking for this?"

A black notebook was suddenly dangling just inches from Edward's face, close enough that he could see every crack in the aging leather cover. Then, it was gone. Before Edward could even think to reach for it, it had disappeared back into Archer's uniform.

"Now then," said Archer, "shall we talk?"

* * *

><p>"There's no need to stare like that," Hughes scolded from his hospital bed. "I know <em>you<em> can't make a gown look so dashing, but this jealousy is very unbecoming."

Frozen in the doorway, Mustang finally found his voice. "_What happened?_"

When Fuery had called him to relay the news that the military communications lines were buzzing with reports of Scar attacking, Brigadier General Grand dead and one Lieutenant Colonel Hughes among the injured, he had expected the worst. But, Hughes was awake, alert and surrounded by a minimum of medical equipment. The only hint of injury was a bandage wound around his head.

"Kimblee happened," Hughes answered, his face darkening briefly. "But," his smile returned, "either he's gotten sloppy, or I'm a medical miracle! They're mostly keeping me for observation. And, look!" He grabbed a half-covered, empty plate from the rolling cart by his bed. "Gracia brought me some more quiche. And, when she gets back from dropping my sweet Elicia off with Mrs. Harris, she might bring pie!"

It took an effort of will not to slam the door behind him as he stalked to the end of Hughes' bed. "What did he do?" Mustang wouldn't be deterred by Hughes' over large smile, his flippancy, or his quiche.

"He _said_ he did some rather unpleasant things with my body chemistry—"

"Bombs," said Mustang flatly. "He transmutes people into bombs."

"Yes, well, he must be slipping." Hughes shrugged. "Despite it _feeling_ like I was going to explode from the inside out and my looking like a bloody mess, the doctors can't find anything wrong with me. Just this knock on the head." He fingered the bandage around his temple. "And, that happened when he blew up the side of a building."

"Have they had an alchemist—?"

"They've had _five_ alchemists in here eyeballing me."

Finally, Mustang started to relax. "How did Kimblee fit into this?"

Hughes looked confused. "He ambushed me in the street. I was trying to meet up with you near the barracks." He paused. "Oh! You forgot a page." He pointed toward the room's single chair, which was draped with a messy blue bundle. "It's in my uniform."

"Kimblee?" Someone had to stay on topic.

"Right, right." Hughes waved his hands in a placating gesture. "According to Kimblee, he was skulking around the barracks for another chance at Elric. I just made a good substitute."

"What about Grand and Scar?" Mustang was frowning now.

"Scar was there?" Something in Hughes' face sharpened.

"At the barracks, yes." Shoving Hughes' bloody uniform off the chair with a grimace, Mustang dropped into the wooden seat. "He fought and killed General Grand."

"Old man Grand too?" Hughes whistled softly. His face sobered. "You need to be careful, Roy."

"As if you have room to talk."

"So," Hughes shifted topics, "what about your project?"

"Over, I suppose," said Mustang. "Grand's dead, and I'm not aware of anyone he was collaborating with."

Hughes thought this over for a moment. "So, what about _your_ project?"

For the first time, Mustang allowed the hint of a smile to cross his lips. As always, Hughes knew him far too well.

"Well, Kimblee is still on the loose and pursuing Elric for some unknown employer," he said. "It would be remiss of me to ignore the matter."

"And, the curiosity will eat you alive if you drop it." Hughes was smirking.

Mustang matched him with a smirk of his own. One that grew teeth as there was a knock on the door.

"Maybe that's the nurse, here to subject you to cold instruments and enforce the doctor's dietary restrictions," he said. "Which means no more of the quiche you were holding out on me."

"Monster," Hughes muttered before calling more loudly. "Come in!"

Both men stiffened as Major Archer stepped into the room.

"Lieutenant Colonel Hughes," he greeted, pausing to nod toward Mustang as well. "Colonel Mustang." He turned his attention back to Hughes. "I heard about your injuries, Lieutenant Colonel. Sustained during Scar's attack, I take it?"

"No, I was attacked by Solf J. Kimblee, the former Crimson Alchemist." Hughes' face was all business now. "Inform the task force assigned to bring him in. He caught me a block from the scene of Scar's attack and claimed his original target was the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric. This is the second time he's attempted to either capture or kill Elric."

Archer inclined his head. "I'll be sure to inform them. Now, as to the Scar case…"

"I'll contact my team," said Hughes. "The doctors intend to release me by tomorrow at the latest. My men can start collecting statements and evidence in the meantime."

"There's no need," said Archer smoothly. "Considering your injuries, I've been assigned to the case for the time being."

"_What_?"

"It was believed you were quite heavily injured, Lieutenant Colonel." Archer frowned in feigned concern. "Knowing you were attacked by Kimblee - and given his reputation - perhaps you should stay for further observation? It was my understanding that he had developed a means to transmute living bodies into time bombs as well."

Hughes' knuckles were as white as the sheets they gripped. "I've already been examined by five alchemists who specialize in biological transmutation."

"Excellent." Archer smiled. "You should have nothing to worry about in that case. But, it's always wise to take precautions." He turned. "I'll see to it that the investigation is conducted properly until your return, Lieutenant Colonel."

He opened the door, and the other men were surprised to see a familiar gray-haired man standing behind it. Surprise flashed across Archer's face as well. Then, it was swallowed by a mask of careful calm.

"Ah, Fullmetal," he said, smiling once more. "Come along. I still need your statement on the incident."

Fullmetal scowled but stepped back to let Archer through. As the taller man moved past, Fullmetal peered into the room. His yellow eyes swept over Hughes appraisingly before flicking to meet Mustang's curious gaze. Locking eyes with the colonel, he jabbed a hand in the direction Archer had taken and mouthed a single word. Then, he was gone.

There was silence for a moment as Mustang carefully shut the door. Once it was secured, Hughes opened his mouth.

"Not that I don't agree with Elric's assessment of Archer, but what was that about?"

Frowning, Mustang stared at the door. After a moment, his face cleared and he turned to face Hughes.

"And, what were you doing around the barracks at that time of night?" he asked, pointing at his friend.

"Huh?" Hughes' face was a textbook image of confusion.

"That's what Archer _should_ have asked," said Mustang. "Or rather, what he should want to know. But, he doesn't. All he wants is your investigation."

Hughes huffed. "Archer's obsessed with advancement and recognition," he said. "He probably thinks he can solve this one and finally get the brass's attention."

"Maybe," said Mustang. "It's interesting to me, however, how quickly he's collected Elric." He crossed the room and pulled Hughes' uniform from the floor.

"Okay, seriously, Roy, what is this guy—?"

"Not here," said Mustang. Retrieving the folded page of Fullmetal's file, he tucked it into his own jacket and then folded the bloodied uniform back on the chair. "And, don't go prying into it."

"Me? Pry?" Hughes grinned.

Mustang scowled back. "I'm serious, Hughes." Taking a step toward the bed, he lowered his voice. "Maes, listen to me. I'm not sure all this was a coincidence. And, you've got Gracia and Elicia to think of. You should take a vacation."

"Roy?" Hughes hesitated, then dropped his own voice. "You think it's that bad."

"I think," said Mustang, "that I'd rather deal with ten of Brigadier General Grand than a man who would set Kimblee loose just to further his ambitions." His last words were a vicious whisper.

Hughes stared at him for several long seconds. Slowly, his face hardened.

"This is bad, Roy." He paused, considered. "Look, I'll send my girls to Gracia's cousin. He lives south of here and—"

"You too," said Mustang sharply.

"I'm not leaving you alone with this!"

The two men glared at one another.

"I promised to help you," said Hughes. He slashed a hand through the air. "I knew the risks."

Mustang smiled suddenly. "But, you will be helping me."

"I—What?"

Mustang's smile never wavered. "The south, you said?" His voice was a purr. "I happen to need someone to visit a little place in the south. It's called Dublith."

Ten minutes later, Mustang slipped out of Hughes' room on a mission. He was operating on nothing more than a hunch, but he had rarely been so certain. Archer had met with one of the guards Grand had assigned at the library. Only days later, Kimblee had made his first attempt at kidnapping Elric. Then, all in one night, Archer had been handed legitimate access to Elric and no Grand to interfere. Of course, Scar killing Grand was likely no more than a fortunate coincidence. But, Archer had moved quickly to capitalize on it.

Then, there was Elric's behavior. Only once before had he looked at Mustang so intently. In that instant of calm after his seizure. When he had left his "message" for Grand. Mouthing the same epithet he had now bestowed upon Archer.

"He might not remember that," Mustang reminded himself.

But, his gut instinct said otherwise. Those yellow eyes had been clearer than he had ever seen them.

Debating his next course of action, Mustang headed for the main hallway and exit. As he rounded a corner, he paused at the sight of Elric's bodyguards standing uncertainly in the hall, looking first one way and then another.

"…can't have gone far," Darius was saying.

"Sure we even want to find him?" Heinkel asked.

Mustang immediately moved to meet them. "Are you looking for Elric?"

Both men spun around before visibly relaxing at the sight of him.

"Sir." Heinkel's salute was perfunctory at best. "That's right. Elric… stepped out of the waiting room and never came back."

"I saw him with Major Archer from Investigations," said Mustang, wondering why they had allowed the diminutive alchemist to go anywhere, even to the bathroom, alone. The man had barely been able to walk straight less than twenty-four hours ago. "I suspect the major has commandeered Elric for questioning about Scar's attack."

The burly pair frowned. Mustang could almost feel the obvious question in both their minds. What now?

"Could you tell me what happened?" he asked, hoping to get some answers before they decided to either be done with it all and wait for new orders or hunt down Archer and Elric.

"What didn't happen?" muttered Heinkel after a moment.

"Yeah, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure what happened," said Darius. "First, Elric got out of his room."

"Through the window," added Heinkel.

"Yeah," Darius agreed, "through the window." He frowned. "From the second floor." He shook his head quickly. "We found him out in the snow looking after Lieutenant Colonel Hughes."

Mustang stiffened. "Lieutenant Colonel Hughes?"

Both men nodded.

"No idea what happened to him," said Heinkel. "He was covered in blood, and Elric was yelling at us to call a doctor. By the time we did that and got out there, someone had called the General too."

"Blood? From his head wound?" asked Mustang.

"Head wound?" Heinkel frowned. "I guess he might have had one. His whole face was bloody. Looked like he'd been coughing it up."

Mustang felt cold. Coughing up blood was certainly more the sort of injury he expected from an attack by Kimblee. But, no doctor alive could have missed something that obvious.

"Then, Scar showed up and attacked the General. So, we tried to get the Lieutenant Colonel and Elric out of there," Darius continued. "Only, when he saw the General about to get hit by Scar, Elric just…" He looked toward his partner, who shrugged hopelessly. "It was some kind of alchemy," Darius said at last. "I couldn't tell you what. He made a wall between them. It wasn't his fault that Scar guy went through it like wet cardboard."

Mustang took a deep breath. Elric was the one to find Hughes. Elric, whose file noted again and again his uncanny ability to perform alchemy by merely clapping his hands.

"Gentlemen," he started, "I realize you'll probably be questioned again, but could you tell me _exactly_ what happened out there tonight?"


	15. Book 2: Chapter 15: Check It Out

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> June 29, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None this chapter.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thanks to everyone who has been following this story. And, as always, constructive criticism on my plot, characterization and even grammar is welcomed.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 15: Check It Out**

**July, 1884**

Maybe his head hadn't cleared by the time he reached Liore because Ed wasn't prepared for them to shoot at him. The car had died a mile out, whether from lack of fuel or abuse he couldn't tell. And, he had transmuted Hakuro's stupid uniform into a semblance of his usual clothes. Really, nothing about him said "military."

It was a surprise to learn that they didn't shoot at him for being a State Alchemist. They shot at him for tampering with the transmutation circle that was going to kill them all.

"Protect the city?" Ed yelped as the scowling men dropped him unceremoniously on the floor at the back of a shuttered house turned rebel base. "Your whole city is at the _center_ of the transmutation!" He squirmed into a sitting position, straining at the ropes around his torso. "If it were used—!"

Tense faces relaxed imperceptibly.

"Glad to see the 'People's Alchemist' is still on the right side," said a large, bearded man, dropping into a crouch in front of Ed. "But, you got it wrong, Kid."

Ed frowned. "What?"

"That circle." The man leaned forward. "It works the other way around. It doesn't affect what's inside. It's going to protect Liore."

"And, wipe out the military," said another man with an ugly grin. "We got an alchemist to make it for us."

"An alchemist?" Ed asked mechanically as his mind dredged up every detail of the circle from the aerial photograph. Had he missed something? It was the array for a Philosopher's Stone, yes, but could some twist in the construction formula direct the reaction out rather than in? He was still turning it over in his mind when a new voice broke over his thoughts.

"I designed the array."

Ed looked up to see a young woman with chin-length dark hair stepping out of the crowd.

"Lyra?" he asked, recognizing her vaguely from their two, brief encounters. "I thought you were in Dublith."

Lyra's face softened. "Lady Dante was very old… She passed away shortly after you left." The man stood and moved away so Lyra could kneel by Ed. "But, she taught me many things, and I remembered what you told me in Youswell. Alchemists serve the people. So, I came here to help."

"With a transmutation circle for— like _that_?" Did she know what that circle was for? And, where did she learn it?

"Yes." Lyra's dark eyes were solemn. "It's very dangerous, but there's no other way. The military means to make an example of Liore."

"But, that's—! Even if the array does work like you plan, you'll be—!"

Lyra looked away, and Ed searched the crowd. Hard men with harder eyes. Hard, desperate men, clutching weapons with whitening knuckles.

"Even if everyone here were to surrender," Lyra continued, "no one would be spared."

"Which is why we're going to kill them first," said the bearded man.

"But, you can't just—"

Even that idiot Hakuro had a wife and children. And, the circle… He could still see it in his mind. Match it against the one at the Fifth Laboratory. They were identical.

"Who are you to tell us we can't?"

"Do you know what they've done?"

The room erupted with angry shouts. But, the bearded man quieted them with his own shout and reached down to haul Ed up by the ropes binding him.

"You're a good kid," he said, eyeing Ed consideringly as the alchemist stumbled to his feet. "But, if you're not with us, we're going to have to keep you quiet."

Then, he was being propelled through the crowd. He twisted to try and find Lyra one last time.

"Lyra! That array around the city – who taught you that?" He had to tell her. The array was the same as the one etched into the floor at the Fifth Laboratory. There was no difference. "You've got to listen to me! It doesn't work the way you think!"

A large, sweaty hand covered his mouth, and Ed fought to breathe. He jerked his head, opened his mouth. Teeth sank into dirty flesh until it was yanked away with a curse.

"The reaction won't go out! The city—!"

His teeth snapped together as something hard and heavy collided with the back of his skull. Light exploded across his vision, and his legs tangled around one another. Rougher hands were on him now. Cloth was forced into his mouth, pulled tight.

The world fading in and out around him, Ed was dragged forward. His fogged mind struggled to assess the situation. A good whack to the head, ropes. Perfect. Well, not perfect – the room was a blur and the men's numbers seemed to have doubled. But, it was predictable. Perfectly predictable. Now, if they would just leave him in a locked room somewhere…

His eyes caught a flash of bright color, and he followed it.

A familiar face swam into his vision, dark-skinned and framed by pink-dyed hair. With wide eyes that stared at him in fear and horror.

"_Rose?_"

Somewhere, a baby was crying. Far away, at the end of a long, long tunnel. But, he was falling away from it, down into a darkness that swallowed all light.

* * *

><p>Leaving Youswell was an interesting experience. After his call to the Colonel, Heymans Breda was ready to leave the next morning with the first train out of town. Collecting his suitcase, he made his way down to the inn's main floor for breakfast. This time, he was served by Halling's son, Kyle. Kyle, it turned out, was easily the size of his father but far less subtle.<p>

"Are you a State Alchemist?" he asked while offering a plate of sausage.

Breda nearly choked on the drink he had just taken. "A State Alchemist?"

"You came here looking for some crook using alchemy, right?" Kyle asked. "And, you don't wear a uniform. Some of them don't, right?"

True enough on all counts. Setting his coffee mug down, Breda considered his words. These were good people. And, some of the few he had ever met who said "State Alchemist" like it wasn't a curse. That Fullmetal guy had left a lasting impression. One he didn't want to ruin.

"No, I'm not a State Alchemist," he said at last. "I just work for one."

Kyle's eyes widened. "Do you work for Ed? Did he send you here?"

"Ed?"

"Oh." Kyle grinned. "I guess he's General Elric or something now."

It took a minute to put together.

"You mean Fullmetal."

Kyle nodded. "He saved me with that automail of his. Twice."

Breda fought the urge to shake his head. Did everyone in this town have a Fullmetal story? Realizing that Kyle was looking at him expectantly, he chose another careful truth.

"Let's just say "Ed's" involved. Though he has no idea I'm out here."

Kyle's smile split his face. "Tell him we still remember him. Would you?"

"I'll pass it along."

Standing at the train station, Breda hoped he would be able to keep that promise. He thought he was reading the Colonel right on this one. Fullmetal wasn't a rival or a threat, just a mystery. And, stepping back to let a dark-haired woman with a wide hat board ahead of him, Breda wondered where the mystery would take him next.

By late afternoon, he had one answer. He rendezvoused with Major Armstrong in Samsun, the closest town to Ishval and Liore on the regular line. From there, he transferred to a military train and traveled to new depths of excruciating.

Major Alex Louis Armstrong wasn't bad company per se. In fact, so long as you weren't trying to keep a low profile, he was great to have along on field work. From the single, blond curl atop his otherwise bald head to shoulders so wide they barely cleared doorways, Armstrong was a mountain of a man. What's more, he was a State Alchemist. The aptly named Strong Arm Alchemist. If this little excursion went south, at least Breda had the advantage of a one man artillery unit on his side.

The problem started when you made the mistake of grunting in a way that could be interpreted as curious instead of politely uninterested. In which case the Major was thrilled to, "alleviate the dull monotony of travel with a selection of the stories passed down the Armstrong line for generations."

With the Armstrongs, everything was passed down for generations. And, most of them liked to tell you about it. At length. Except the Major General, who saw no point in wasting time telling you that her sword was a family heirloom when she could use the time to gut you with it instead. Listening to Alex drone on, Breda wondered what life had been like with the mismatched pair growing up in the same house. Violent probably.

He quickly dismissed the mental images and instead leaned his head back to try and see past Armstrong's mammoth shoulders. Yes, he could still just make out a head of dark hair up in a clip toward the front of the train car.

"Major," he said quietly, interrupting the saga of Odysseus Telemachus Armstrong somewhere in its fifth recitation of begets, "you notice the lady a few rows up?"

It would have been hard not to notice her. She was only the only woman in the sparsely populated car carrying military personnel to the occupied Ishval region.

Something in Armstrong's blue eyes sharpened at Breda's words, and he loudly finished his last sentence. "…and thus emboldened by his ancestors' words, Odysseus Telemachus Armstrong defeated the one hundred and eight suitors to claim the heart of his lady," he said. Then, in a surprisingly soft voice, he added, "A dark-haired woman, perhaps in her forties or fifties, yes."

"Yeah, she got on the train with me in Youswell." Breda leaned back and crossed his arms. "And, she wasn't wearing a uniform then."

"Hmm," the major rumbled, his bushy, blond moustache twitching. "She may be returning from leave."

"Yeah," Breda looked out the window to his right, "maybe."

Except, sometime during the long night ride, the dark-haired woman disappeared. Completely. The train, primarily a supply train, only had two passenger cars. And, when they reached the military outpost in the remains of the Ishvalan capitol, a few discreet inquiries turned up several people who remembered seeing her, but none who saw her disembark.

Breda didn't like it. And, the long train ride and rock hard mattress waiting for him that night did little to improve his mood.

"There was one stop to take on water and coal," Armstrong offered the next day as the pair walked toward the base's small motor pool.

"But, what would be the point of sneaking off the train?" wondered Breda, quietly cursing the necessity of his uniform. Despite the season, it was uncomfortably hot even with his jacket unbuttoned. "This is the only place out in this wasteland." And, why even the displaced Ishvalans would want to visit was beyond his understanding.

"Ah, good morning, Sir!"

Breda very nearly tripped over his own feet. There was a woman standing at attention by the motor pool. Her dark hair was pinned up neatly, her uniform was crisp and her blue eyes were far too familiar.

"_Clara?_"

The woman looked from side to side and, seeing they were alone, immediately dropped all pretense of formality.

"It's so good to see you again, Mr. Breda," she gushed. "I'm sorry I had to deceive you. Although," she wagged a finger at his uniform, "I see you weren't entirely truthful yourself."

Breda sputtered. "No one ever asked me about—!"

"It's alright," Clara cut in. "I forgive you."

"You… what?"

"As for my own deception," she clasped her hands in front of her chest, "when I heard you were going to Liore, I had to do _something_! "

Now, exactly when had he mentioned going to Liore?

"You know this woman?" Armstrong asked, a frown wrinkling his shiny forehead.

"We met in Youswell." Where her hair had been blonde, and she had had a job distinctly not in the military. Forcing the scowl off his face, Breda addressed Clara again. "Okay, I don't understand. You… had to do something?" he asked slowly.

"Yes." Clara nodded her head fervently. "You see, my entire family used to live in Liore. Until…" She dabbed at the corner of one eye. "Well, it's been so many years, but I wanted to pay my respects."

Breda struggled to find words. Armstrong had no such problems.

"Miss Clara!" he bellowed, engulfing the much smaller woman in a hug. "Allow me, Alex Louis Armstrong, to extend my condolences on the loss of your family in such a tragedy!"

Was Armstrong crying?

"Such devotion to your long departed loved ones!" he gushed. "Such incredible bonds of kinship that tie you together across time itself!"

Somewhere in the midst of that declaration, Clara had squeezed free of the giant's grasp to instead take his huge hands in hers. "Yes," she said tearfully, "we were very close."

"And, it shows!" Armstrong wailed. The burly man mopped at his eyes.

Clara wordlessly offered him a handkerchief.

It had to be the heat, Breda decided. It was affecting his mind. That was the only explanation for what he was seeing. Because the only thing that could make this nonsense more surreal would be if Armstrong abruptly decided to rip off his shirt.

"Considering your situation, Miss Clara, would you care to accompany 2nd Lieutenant Breda and I to Liore?"

Or do that.

Well, Breda thought, rubbing his aching head, at least it was one way to keep an eye on her. Because he had never heard a story so fake or a lie so bald. Assuming, of course, all of this was real.

* * *

><p>It was real. The sun was blinding. It was blazing hot. There was sand in his hair, his teeth and his pants. It was either real or the most detailed nightmare he had ever had.<p>

Slowing the open car as it rounded one last dune, Breda tuned out Armstrong's current recitation and Clara's quiet comments from the passenger's seat. Instead, he focused on his first sight of Liore.

Sand, sand and more sand. Only a few crumbling walls stood as a silent reminder that this had once been a city. The sight quieted even Armstrong, who reached from the back of the car to lay a gentle hand on Clara's shoulder.

Breda just scowled grimly. He had no idea what the Colonel expected him to find in this wasteland. Bringing the car to a stop, he stepped out and surveyed the scene.

"Hmm," Armstrong rumbled, freeing himself from the car with surprising grace. "It's just as they say. Truly an incredible tragedy." His voice became thoughtful. "The only structures that remain appear to have been along the edge of the destruction."

Breda's eyes narrowed, and he took in the ruins of Liore again. Armstrong was right. The only surviving hints of civilization fanned out along the edges of the flat plain on which the city was built. Possibly the outer edge of the munitions explosion that had destroyed Liore.

Except, unless that sand was covering a lot more rubble, detonating every armory in Central wouldn't reduce a city to dust.

"A circle," Clara's voice was soft as she slipped out of the car and moved to stand beside Breda. "The rumors said the military destroyed Liore with alchemy. I thought they meant State Alchemists. Like in Ishval."

Breda started to answer and stopped. A circle. While it was impossible to say for sure given how few there were, the broken walls did seem to follow a sort of curve. And, alchemists did use circles. The regular ones drew their circles. Casual practitioners who didn't decide to tattoo one on their hands or wear gloves and gauntlets like most of the State Alchemists. But, the range of even the Colonel's gloves was limited. He could set a neighborhood ablaze in a single snap, but not an entire town.

"A transmutation circle drawn around the city?" Armstrong vocalized the thought he had been working toward.

Yeah, that would probably do it. But, how on earth could you draw a circle around an entire town - a town in open rebellion against the military – without being seen?

Clara seemed to be thinking even further ahead. "But, what kind of transmutation could—?" Her words trailed away as she began to walk toward the weatherworn stones.

Letting her go, Breda waited for Armstrong to join him and then spoke quietly. "The Colonel sent me here because a State Alchemist he's taken an interest in came here once when there was still something to visit." His eyes swept over the landscape. "No idea what he thought I'd find, but I'm starting to think this alchemy idea might be it."

Armstrong frowned. "Who is this alchemist?"

"Goes by Fullmetal. Proper name's Elric."

"Mmm." Armstrong shook his head. "I'm not familiar with the name."

"Most people aren't," said Breda. "He was a Drachman POW for ten years, and he's never been right since. Anyway," he nodded toward where Clara was walking slowly through the sand in her borrowed – stolen? – military issue boots, "what do you make of her?"

"Miss Clara?"

"Yeah, Miss Clara, who was an alchemist's assistant back in Youswell." Breda looked up to give Armstrong a cynical smile. "And, who seems to me to be more professionally interested than mourning out there in her family's last resting place."

"Er…" It was weird for anyone that large to look that sheepish.

"It's not a problem," said Breda. "Probably. I'm just not sure what it _is_."

The men stood in silence for several minutes.

"What's the Colonel's interest in this Mr. Elric?" Armstrong asked as Clara drifted farther away.

"I think it's more that he's trying to figure out what Brigadier General Grand's interest is," said Breda, turning his head slightly to catch a faint breeze. "He's had the Colonel and that Fullmetal guy pulled off on some special project for the last two months. Something to do with amplifiers for alchemy."

Armstrong inclined his great, nearly bald head. "Because of the Fuhrer-Elect's talk of disbanding the State Alchemists?"

"Most likely." Breda frowned, watching as Clara made her way toward the center of what had once been Liore. "But, there's more to it. Somehow, Fullmetal wound up in the hospital, and the Colonel's been digging for answers ever since."

"Some sort of rebound during an experiment perhaps?" Armstrong mused.

"I wouldn't know," said Breda. "But, it's not a simple research assignment. Not anymore."

"Well then, I'll see if there's any further information I can gather here," declared Armstrong after a moment of thought.

Stepping away from Breda, he first made his way to Clara, who was kneeling in the sand with one hand pressed to her chest. Breda watched as the giant man touched her shoulder, and she looked up quickly.

"Mr. Armstro—"

The rest of her words were quieter and swallowed in the distance between them. They were probably just pleasantries anyway. Nodding in response, Armstrong moved on toward the closest decaying wall. Unsure what he should do, Breda followed Armstrong. He wasn't an alchemist and clues a layman could see were probably destroyed decades ago. But, there might be a hint of shade over there, and he would take whatever he could find.

Clara let her hand slip from her chest as the two men walked further away. A gusty breath washed over her lips. That had been close. With her concentration caught in the subtle transmutation that would alter the air just enough to help sound carry over hot desert sands, she had almost missed Armstrong's approach.

But, she had heard enough. Most of it was nonsensical and of no particular use. Generals and projects to save the State Alchemists. Nothing that mattered to the likes of her. But, it was interesting about the Fullmetal boy. Alchemic amplifiers, hmm?

"_Just answer me one thing. If you're an alchemist, you must have heard about the Philosopher's Stone._"

Not the question she had expected of a fifteen year old boy. And, the burning in those strange golden eyes made that moment fresh even now.

Perhaps it was time she visited Central. It had been years after all.

Clara glanced down the front of her "borrowed" uniform where pitted, tarnished silver caught the sun for an instant. Besides, she had such an interesting new toy.

* * *

><p>Three days later, on the military train returning to Samsun, Breda finally breathed a sigh of relief. The sunburn was fading. His clothes were sand free. And, they had gotten Clara through the occupied region without problems. Armstrong's rank and presence had kept anyone from looking too closely at their odd little trio. And, Clara was surprisingly good at military protocol. Even her uniform was legitimate – though there might be a corporal in nothing but his drawers somewhere.<p>

Which brought up his remaining problem. With a jaded eye, Breda watched Clara chat with Armstrong about everything and nothing. They were almost back to Samsun, where he and Armstrong would pick up their journey back to Central. And, Clara would, presumably, return to Youswell.

The woman had been oddly quiet on the return trip from Liore. She had thanked Armstrong for using his alchemy to create a memorial to the citizens – and wouldn't the brass love that – and then she had gone silent for the rest of the drive. Her behavior had led Breda to reassess his impression of her again and again. Maybe she really had had family out there. Or maybe she was depressed over not finding any leftover valuables or good dirt on the military out there. All of the above was an option too.

The train's whistle sounded. Breda looked out the window to his left to see the Samsun station around a bend in the track. Whatever Clara was up to, he had to decide now if he could just let her go. She hadn't done anything _wrong_. Well, aside from impersonating a soldier and sneaking into a region off limits to civilians.

He was still debating the matter as they disembarked. Which was why he was completely unprepared when Clara, who had stepped off ahead of them, abruptly spun to hug first him and then Armstrong.

"Thank you so much!" she said. "Both of you. For putting up with me and letting me see Liore one last time." She stepped back, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief again. "I'll never forget you. Truly."

"Miss Clara…." Armstrong started.

Clara was already thirty feet away, waving her handkerchief. "I wish you both the best!" she called. Then, she was gone, weaving through the light crowd past the freight cars.

Breda could only stare. Okay, _that_ was more than slightly suspicious.

"Major, we should—"

Armstrong was sniffling again. "Ah, poor Miss Clara," he said.

"I think she'll be fine," said Breda dryly.

"For now," Armstrong replied. "But, what of her future? She's nearly destitute."

"Destitute?" Breda stared up at him. "She was working as an alchemist's assistant in Youswell and seemed to be doing pretty well to me. What did she tell you?"

He really shouldn't have tuned the pair out on the train ride. He just didn't think he would have survived another saga of the illustrious history of the Armstrong line.

"Well," the larger man hesitated, "it wasn't words so much as the fact that she seemed to feel the need to avail herself of my personal effects."

It took Breda a minute to translate Armstrong's euphemism. "You mean she picked your pocket?" he yelped. He immediately felt his own pockets. Except they weren't there. His searching hands found only smooth cloth where there should have been openings. Smooth, _flat_ cloth.

And, all the pieces finally came together.

"Major, we've got to find her!"

"2nd Lieutenant," Armstrong began, "if it's such a great loss, I can reimburse—"

"Not that!" yelled Breda. "_She's_ the one who had Lieutenant General Northup— Nevermind, I'll tell you later." He scanned the station before bolting in the direction Clara had taken. "First, we've got to catch her!"

Reaching the rear of the train after a few minutes' frantic search, Breda looked across the tracks. Flat scrubland stretched out before him. Nowhere to hide there. He turned back to the station, bustling with a small midday crowd waiting for the train back west.

"Just great," he muttered.

The train whistled shrilly, and shouts echoed through the open air station. With a ponderous groan, the car beside him lurched forward.

"What th—?"

Stumbling off the tracks, Breda looked to see workers scrambling away from the train. He grabbed one as he passed.

"What's going on?"

The man shook his head. "Something about a State Alchemist commandeering the train."

"State Alchemist?" It only took a second for the facts to click this time. Breda released the man and swung around. His eyes found Armstrong's unmistakable form. "Major, your watch—!"

"Here." Armstrong held up the silver pocket watch, tiny in his huge hand.

"Then, who—?"

The train was starting to pick up speed. Breda made a decision.

"Major, we need to be on that train!"

He had only just started to move when Armstrong caught him under one burly arm. One burly _bare_ arm. Where on earth had the man's shirt gone?

"Leave it to me, 2nd Lieutenant!" Armstrong boomed.

He drew his free arm back, metal gauntlet flashing. And, as the ground underneath them exploded in blue light and heaving earth, Breda wondered what he had gotten himself into.

* * *

><p>It's a wonder Armstrong went that long with his shirt on. You know it is. And, I imagine "stories passed down the Armstrong line for generations" read a bit like epic poetry with long recitations about Something Something Armstrong, the son of Somebody Somebody Armstrong, from the Northwesternmost East part of Amestris, who once slew ten boarpomeranian chimera with a broken spade.


	16. Book 2: Chapter 16: You're in My Way

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> July 6, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None this chapter.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Endless thanks to SageSK and Kayca for the last minute betas on this chapter as scenes got added and cut and tweaked and I generally ran in circles.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 16: You're in My Way**

**July, 1884**

The air was thick and heavy with the smell of rot. Blood was dripping into one eye from a gash in his head. And, the short, bald homunculus was eyeing him as though he were a fresh cut of meat. But, those were minor concerns compared to the horror unfolding with Lyra's words.

"What… What do you mean?" Ed asked, watching the dark-haired woman advance on him.

His head was throbbing. He must have heard her wrong.

"I mean," she answered, "that that was _my_ array you were destroying out there. And, I need it intact to create my Stone."

"_Y—Your_ array?"

She couldn't be saying this. It made no sense.

But, nothing made sense.

Reality had become a steadily deepening nightmare. Liore, encircled with the array to create a Philosopher's Stone. The rebels, angry and desperate. Rose, silent and hollow-eyed. Homunculi exploding from the sand as he tried, frantically, to disable the array that threatened to end it all.

And, now, he was trapped in a surreal tableau. He hung, alchemically bound to the wall, while Lyra watched him with a small, knowing smile. Lyra, who had somehow performed a circleless transmutation, clapping her hands just as he did. Behind her, Rose sat mute in a simple wooden chair, a baby cradled in her arms. At the wall, the voluptuous homunculus they called Lust lounged against the room's single window. An open smirk curled her full, red lips as she rested a hand on her shorter companion's head.

"And, they call him a genius," she said.

The bald homunculus, Gluttony, giggled under her hand.

Ed felt confusion wash away in a surge of fury. They thought this was _funny_. Just like they had thought it was funny in the Fifth Laboratory.

"_Oh, my. It seems my finger slipped. _Now_ what will you do?_"

"Shut up!" he snarled at Lust, at the memory.

"_I suppose you've got no choice now. Do you, little boy?_"

"Yes, my array," said Lyra, breaking him from the ugly, aching memories.

And, that was okay. He had salvaged that nightmare, bought time. Now, he had to do the same here.

"Why?" Ed demanded.

"Because Lyra's body is no longer sufficient," Lyra answered simply.

"What do you mean? 'Lyra's body'?" Ed struggled for words. His head was still throbbing, and she wasn't making sense. "You're—"

"Lady Dante," the woman finished for him. "My old body was becoming quite useless. I thought this one would suffice, but," she sighed, "it seems I need a new Philosopher's Stone to complete the transmutation properly."

She couldn't be saying this.

"Where's Lyra?"

The dark-haired woman shrugged. "Who knows?"

Ed bit down bile. To transfer a soul, to claim a body, equivalent exchange would demand its due.

"Why?" he growled. His eyes flicked to the homunculi. "And, why are they—?"

"Because I found them," said Lyra – no, Dante. "I nurtured them, helped them achieve human form. You know what a dreadful mess they are in the beginning."

Twisted bones and exposed organs pulsing desperately to live against the odds. He knew.

"And, once we have the Stone, _we'll_ get new bodies as well," said Lust. "Human bodies."

"Human," Gluttony parroted, a gobbet of drool sliding from his wide mouth.

"So," Dante stepped closer, and the heavy perfume she was wearing washed over him, "you've been searching for the Stone yourself, correct?"

It was a cloying sweetness undercut with something thick and fetid.

Dante studied him with dark eyes. Stolen eyes. "The military will overrun the city soon."

He realized, in a flash of memory, that he had smelled this scent before. In old books and scribbled notes. In the musty air of the small study where he and Al began teaching themselves alchemy.

"As soon as they're inside, the array will be activated. Think of it." Dante spread her arms wide. "A Philosopher's Stone forged from over ten thousand lives!" Her eyes were bright with an unholy delight.

Lingering, years later, in the cluttered laboratory where he and Al attempted the impossible and committed the unforgivable.

"All the possibilities of alchemy will be open to whoever possesses it." Dante was in his face now, the thick stench of his father's cologne choking him with every breath. "Think of it, Edward Elric."

She reached out a hand, and he drew back so sharply his head cracked into the wall. Unable to go further, he swore as she caressed his face with her stolen hand.

"This hair." Fingers tugged at his chin-length bangs. "He always favored blonds," she purred. "And, those eyes like fire."

"Don't touch me!" Ed snarled.

She ignored him, running fingers along his cheekbone. "So like _him_, Hohenheim of Light."

Ed jerked involuntarily. No one knew his father's name. He had never told a soul outside Resembool.

Seeing his face, Dante's smile widened. "Oh, I knew the first time I saw you. You see, your father, Hohenheim, and I knew each other long ago. When he was young and boundlessly curious about all that alchemy could accomplish." She stepped back and spun herself in a circle. "Those were wonderful days," Dante breathed. "So many secrets revealed themselves to us. Including the Philosopher's Stone."

Ed felt his stomach lurch. "You're lying."

She couldn't be saying this.

"You know I'm not," said Dante. "Besides," her tone became that of one explaining to a slow child, "that first stone was an act of mercy, utilizing the hundreds just waiting to die of plague. Leaving their broken, wasted shells to become pure, boundless energy was a sweet release." She moved to the window as Lust and Gluttony obligingly stepped aside. "This is no different," said Dante, looking down on the rubble strewn street below. "Liore will die soon; it's only a matter of how. Its people are broken and desperate. They know they can't be saved." She turned to look at Rose. "Isn't that right, dear?"

Rose remained silent, staring down at the baby sleeping against her. Not even her eyelids fluttered in acknowledgement of Dante's words.

"You see?" Dante waved a hand at Rose. "They're all like that inside. Some just fill the emptiness with anger rather than despair."

"They're _living people_!" Ed shouted. "You're talking about _murdering_ ten thousand people!" His eyes fell on Rose. "Rose! Wake up!" He strained against the altered stone encasing him. His right arm had been pulled out from his body, twisted up at an angle and trapped separately. Each tug brought the whine of strained motors to his ears. His automail wasn't strong enough to break free. Edward snarled in frustration. "I know you're in there, Rose! Look at me!"

Rose didn't move.

Dante shook her head. "Such a silly, stubborn boy. Well," she motioned toward the door to Ed's right, "let's give him some time to think about it. Pride should be sending an advance force of soldiers soon. Probably on the pretense of retrieving this boy. I trust you two can make sure they die messily at the Liorans' hands?"

Lust smirked as she stalked out the door. "Easily. You only need one to deliver the message?"

"Of course."

They swept past Ed, all dark clothes and darker smiles.

"Lust, can I eat the others?" Gluttony's voice echoed back. "Can I?"

"Maybe one or two," she answered.

Footsteps reverberated up the narrow stairway, and they were gone.

Ed hung limp in his prison, trying to process all he had been told. His father. Dante. Lyra. The homunculi. The Philosopher's Stone. All bound in a web of intrigue and ugly, ugly secrets.

Lyra could be lying. She had told him nothing that could be proven. She knew his father's name, but his creation could have told her.

But, that scent… so like his father's.

Ed swore. "Who cares what the old man did?" he roared.

The baby in Rose's arms woke and began to cry into the sudden silence. The plaintive sound cut through the fog of thoughts, and Ed felt his resolve solidify.

Hohenheim was gone. Vanished with half his mother's heart a decade ago. Liore, its people, Rose, the baby – they were here now.

Ed renewed his struggle.

"Rose!"

He had twisted in those last instants of Dante's transmutation, shielding his left hand with his body. Now, fingers wiggled, testing his range of movement.

"Rose, I can get out of here if you help me," he said.

Rose's eyes never left her baby as she began to gently bounce him in her arms.

"Rose, please! You're going to die!" His fingers could touch the wall. If he only had some way to scratch a transmutation circle... "_Everyone_ is going to die!"

In her own world, Rose never answered.

Ed's fingernails clawed uselessly at the solid stone wall.

"Are you just going to give up then?" he snarled. Silence. "Fine! _I'm_ not giving up. If I have to _chew_ my way out of this thing, I'll find a way." Ed could feel his fingertips burning as he continued to dig at the wall. Good.

A little more and they would bleed. _Then_, he could draw a circle. "I'm going to save Liore. I'm going to save Al. You just watch!"

Rose's head shifted. Her lips formed words without sound.

"_Al…_" A whisper of breath escaped her. "_Ed… and Al…_"

Ed was scraping reddened fingers across rough stone when he felt a soft hand wrap around his own, pressing something into his palm. Startled, he looked up to find Rose looking at him. Her mouth was pulled down into a frown, but there was something in her eyes now.

A light. A determination. A sliver of hope.

* * *

><p><strong>Present <strong>

The people of Liore had not really known how to hold an alchemist, and Dante had been over-confident. The Amestrian military, on the other hand, had no such problem. Bare cells with the simple bed and basic toilet fused to hard stone walls by alchemy challenged even the most determined attempts at creating a circle. As did ruthless, frequent strip searches.

But, the worst part of imprisonment was compensating for the loss of his arm. It threw off his balance to walk without it. And, taking his leg as well wasn't a real solution.

Edward huffed and reached to scratch his itching nose. The shock of cold steel on his face surprised him.

"_My automail?_"

He rolled onto his side and flexed the metal digits, squinting in the dim light. Yes, that was his automail hand. Had the guards gotten sloppy?

No, no. His automail was in place because this was a different cell. Because it was 19-something-or-other, and rather than an unguarded upstairs room in Liore or the heart of a maximum security prison, he was being kept in a small holding cell within the Investigations department.

Huddled on his narrow bunk, Edward scowled at the gray wall backing it.

Archer. Archer was the one who had imprisoned him here. Oh, he didn't call it that. It was all for Edward's own protection, of course. The alchemist was merely being kept safe until Investigations had tracked down Scar.  
>There was a rattle and creak from the door. Edward quickly cleared the scowl from his face and sat up. Turning, he blinked at the light streaming in through the open door. His eyes trained on a dark shape that must be Archer.<p>

"Ah, good morning, Fullmetal," said Archer. "I trust you slept well?"

He had slept dreaming of the frantic, nightmarish hours leading up to Liore's destruction. "Well" did not even come into the equation. But, he only answered simply, "Yes, Sir."

"Good, good." Archer extended a small garment bag. "Here's your uniform. Get dressed, and we can be on our way."

Ah, the uniform. Presumably, it was to keep him safely anonymous around the office. It was devoid of any insignia as he technically wasn't a commissioned officer. Not particularly inconspicuous, but there was no help for that if propriety was to be maintained. And, of course, Archer wouldn't want anyone to remember that they were equals.

He was going to burn the military uniform one of these days. Burn it and dance in the ashes while singing his own version of the Amestrian military march. A version so scandalous it would court immediate execution, make men blush and set dogs to howling.

For the time being, he wordlessly accepted the bag and began changing as Archer stepped outside. He had to be quiet and obedient for now. Archer was several degrees smarter than General Gran had ever been. And, that was a problem.

Ever since Archer had laid claim to him, Edward had had to guard every word he said. Which was hard when he wasn't always certain what he was saying or thinking. The past and present still flowed through his mind in a shifting tangle of images. He was fifteen. He was forty-five. He was Ed. He was Mr. Elric. What he wasn't was the military's poor creature, Fullmetal.

Unfortunately, Fullmetal, who had been both his prison and his shield, was who he _needed_ to be in the face of Archer's sharp eyes and sharper intellect. So, with effort, Edward drew the tattered shreds of the broken false personality around himself. Nothing to see here. Just Gran's discarded puppet, still acting on his orders even after his death.

It seemed to be working so far. He had folded into compliant obedience as soon as Archer had begun carefully feeding him lines about serving the State and carrying on the general's efforts. Thus far, the man seemed to have accepted the act.

"Are you ready?" Archer asked as Edward gave his uniform a few final tugs.

"Yes, Sir."

He followed Archer to his office, where Archer produced what was truly keeping him here when no amount of concrete or steel ever could. The notebook.

"I'll let you resume where you left off," said Archer, handing him the battered notebook. "Someone should be along from the mess with our breakfast shortly."

Edward just nodded and moved to sit at the desk he had been assigned. Carefully, he opened the notebook and stared blankly at the pages. There was no longer any decoding to be done. Even with the past and present an inseparable mess in his mind, Edward understood his own notes.

And, he would not give them to Archer, or to anyone. Instead, he had spent the last week dutifully scratching out pages of equations and arrays. Most were just basic formulas doctored to look more complex, but a few were bits and pieces of his own plans.

He had completed the construction formula for a self-destroying array yesterday. Careful questions about another copy of his notes he had seen while working in the library had Archer's agents, whoever they might be, searching for the printed copies. And, he was fairly confident he knew how to disable that red-eyed lunatic's arm. He was poised to remove all evidence of the Philosopher's Stone, hopefully forever. Now, he just needed an escape plan that wouldn't reveal his secrets.

Ideas turning in his mind, Edward idly scribbled on the paper before him. There had to be a way.

Breakfast did not bring any ideas with it, but it at least quieted his stomach. And, it prompted Archer to become conversational. In his own way.

"Oh, Fullmetal," he began, setting his fork down for a moment. "My sources have a lead on those other notes you mentioned."

Edward looked up from his own breakfast. With effort, he forced aside the nearly automatic, "What? Where?" and instead said, "Sir?"

"They believe the Brigadier General kept those copies somewhere in the library," Archer continued. "Do you have any idea where that might be?"

Research notes. Library. The image of a handwritten text, innocuously nestled amid a series of cookbooks flashed across Edward's mind.

Hoping his face wasn't betraying him, Edward shook his head. "No, Sir," he said, looking down at his plate. From the sound of it, Grand might have used the same method as Dr. Marcoh. Or he might not. Either way, Archer didn't need to know.

"Hmm," said Archer, watching Edward consideringly. "Well, we'll keep looking."

With that, the conversation was over.

For now. Finishing breakfast and resuming his "work," Edward could hope that Archer believed him. Or at least wouldn't act on any disbelief until he had a workable escape plan. For now, Archer semed content to merely watch him periodically from the corner of his eye. Of course, for all his watchfulness, Archer didn't seem to have noticed yet that the awkward scribbles he was making were a game of X's and O's rather than notes. And, he had better not notice any time soon either because Edward and the soul of a grizzled old carpenter were about to go into a tie-breaking fifteenth round. A soft knock at the door interrupted a serious debate on the merits of the middle versus the upper right corner.

Edward glanced up as Archer called for the knocker to enter. His eyes widened at the sight of Colonel Smug standing in the doorway.

"Good morning, Major," Mustang began. "I was wondering if you—" His eyes fell on Edward and took in the blue uniform in one sweeping glance. "Dressing up today, Elric?" A grin tugged at his lips as he continued. "You're just the man I was looking for." He reached to pull something from a pocket on the front of his jacket. "You forgot to pick these up after one of our research sessions."

Edward stared in surprise as Mustang offered him a slender pair of glasses. Why would he need glasses? No, wait. That was right. He wore glasses now. Huh, that would explain why he had spent the last three days practically facedown in the notebook.

"Er… thanks," he managed, taking the glasses.

"Most considerate of you," said Archer. "Was there anything else you needed, Colonel?"

Mustang looked at him briefly. "I just wanted to thank Elric here." He focused on Edward again. "I understand you were the one to find Lieutenant Colonel Hughes after he was attacked?"

Uncertain where this was going and wary of Archer's watching eyes, Edward simply nodded.

"Then, you have my thanks for taking care of him," said Mustang. "The lieutenant colonel is a good friend of mine." There was a curious soberness to his gaze.

"Oh…" Edward floundered. He had never seen the self-possessed colonel so sincere. "I only… I was there…"

Mustang just nodded an acknowledgement. "Well, I'm glad you were." He turned as though to leave, body blocking Edward's view of Archer. "Knowing what Kimblee can do, it's good that Hughes was seen by an alchemist quickly."

"Oh…" Alchemist? The hospital wouldn't have even known to have Hughes examined by an alchemist until he woke up. "You're welcome," Edward managed, mind whirling.

Mustang smiled. "Well, I won't keep you any longer." With another nod for Archer, he was gone.

"Hmm," said Archer in the following silence. "Colonel Mustang is quite thoughtful, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Edward, slowly unfolding the glasses. "I guess he is." He slid the glasses on carefully.

Yes, Mustang was thoughtful, and just as clever as Archer. Maybe more so. But, he wasn't sure if that cleverness would be to his benefit or just another obstacle.

* * *

><p>Roy Mustang tried not to whistle as he made his way back to his office, he really did. It tended to scare his subordinates, after all, and not just because he was tone deaf. But, it was hard to hide his good mood. Because there was nothing quite so satisfying as being right.<p>

The look that had flashed across Elric's face when he mentioned an alchemist treating Hughes had confirmed all his suspicions. Now, came the question of his next step.

He couldn't leave Elric in Archer's hands. That much was obvious. Getting him out, however, would take planning.

Lost in thought, Mustang rounded the last corner to his office. 1st Lieutenant Hawkeye was waiting by the door with a rare bemused expression. She sobered upon spotting Mustang.

"Sir, 2nd Lieutenant Breda and Major Armstrong are back," she said, offering a quick salute. "Given their… circumstances, I let them into your private office."

"Circumstances?" Mustang frowned. Why hadn't either of them called? It was unusual for both of them. And, was that a smile tugging at Hawkeye's lips?

"Yes, Sir. You'll have to see for yourself."

Shooting his uncharacteristically enigmatic lieutenant a curious look, Mustang stepped inside and made his way to his office with Hawkeye following. It was probably Armstrong's doing. For all he could be the soul of propriety, the major was more than slightly eccentric.

He opened the door.

"Slightly eccentric" could not explain the sight before him. Or the _smell_.

Both men were filthy, reeking of something Mustang prayed had not been tracked in, and they were so liberally covered in – was that flour? – that it looked like someone had attempted to batter them. Between the two men – in fact, handcuffed to both of them – was an attractive, middle-aged blonde woman. She smiled brightly at the sight of Mustang. Breda scowled. Armstrong offered a somber salute.

It took an act of will not to go back out the door, shut it and come back when he was sober. Because he must have had a drink he had forgotten somewhere between Investigations and his office. Maybe several. It was against his personal policies, but it was the only sane explanation.

Unfortunately, the ever-efficient Hawkeye was already closing off his escape route and positioning herself beside it. Ostensibly, to head off anyone attempting to enter the office.

Escape no longer an option, Mustang addressed the two men. "I'm guessing there's a long story behind this," he started.

"I can simplify it, Sir," said Breda. "This woman," he thumbed to the blonde, "is your conman. I just didn't put it together until she hijacked the train."

Armstrong's moustache drooped, unleashing a small puff of flour. "I must admit that I still wasn't convinced until the incident with the second train and the sheep."

Breda shrugged. "It's alright, Major. At least we were on the same page by the dining car."

"Nonetheless, I should have anticipated the combustible potential of flour."

Mustang felt a headache coming on. "I'm just going to assume it was difficult to capture her?"

"That would be an understatement," said Breda. "Clara here accompanied us to Liore after using a sob story about her family dying there. While she was there, she picked up this." With his free hand he pulled a round object from his pocket and held it up. "And then, she used it to commandeer a train, claiming to be a State Alchemist."

Mustang stared at the Amestrian seal, worn smooth with age, emblazoned across the cover of a tarnished, silver pocket watch.

"A State Alchemist's watch?" he managed.

"From Liore, she says." Breda dropped the watch into Mustang's hands. "It was buried in the sand."

"And, you meant to use this to impersonate a State Alchemist?" Mustang asked Clara.

"Not at all." She shook her head. "The military's far too serious about that sort of thing for me to use it for anything less than an emergency." She smiled winningly. "Being an alchemist myself, I thought it might be interesting to try some transmutations with the aid of a real State Alchemist's watch."

Mustang hadn't considered that. The watch would be invaluable to gain access and authority all over the countryside, at least for a short time. And, being made primarily of silver, it was valuable for its metal content alone. But, to an alchemist, both were nothing beside the fact that it was a stable alchemic amplifier.

"I'm assuming you got in some 'practical application' on the train?" he asked.

"Unfortunately not." Clara shrugged. "It's completely inert."

Mustang looked down at the battered watch in his hand. No amplifier lasted forever, and it was certainly old. He reached to thumb the latch that would open the cover. His fingers only slid over smooth metal. There was no latch. A closer inspection revealed that the watch had been alchemically sealed.

"Did you seal this?"

Clara shook her head again. "No, I didn't quite find the time." She winked at Breda, whose scowl deepened.

Wary, Mustang carried the watch to his desk and, grabbing the first sheet of paper to come to hand, drew a careful transmutation circle. He settled the watch in the center of it and touched one hand to the edge of the array. There was a brief blue glow as he felt the silver rearrange itself at his direction. Then, mindful of traps, Mustang cautiously flipped the cover open.

There were no surprises. The clock face inside, frozen on 4:15, looked to be in good condition. Probably protected from the desert sands by the alchemy that had sealed it.

Mustang picked the watch up again for a closer look. That was when he noticed the one anomaly. Scratched crudely into the back of the cover was a message: "Don't forget. .79."

He couldn't stop the sudden intake of breath.

"You say this was in Liore?" he asked quietly, turning back to his waiting audience.

"Yes, in the sand." Clara looked curious now.

"Is there something unusual about the watch, Colonel?" Armstrong asked for everyone.

"Just some sort of personal message scratched inside," Mustang answered.

That much was obvious. The date had no relation to Liore's destruction. However, it _was_ the same year in which Edward Elric became a State Alchemist. Mustang decided he really needed to have a long talk with Elric. But, first, he needed Elric.

Mind turning over possibilities, he looked up and was once more assaulted by the nose-searing stench radiating from the two men before him. Not to mention what they were threatening to drip on his floor.

His eyes shifted to the unrepentant woman sandwiched between them. And, he made a snap decision.

"Why don't you two visit the showers?" Mustang suggested as he slid the watch into a pocket. "I'm sure the lieutenant and I can watch Miss Clara for the time being."

He tried not to be too insulted that Breda's first reaction was to look toward Hawkeye for confirmation. His lieutenant was a terribly competent officer, after all. One who was far too professional to smirk as she nodded dutifully.

Armstrong wasn't so easily placated. "Colonel, please exercise caution. This woman is terribly clever as well as a skilled alchemist. She—"

Mustang waved a hand. "We're in the middle of Central Command, Major. And, I happen to be an alchemist myself. It will be fine."

Armstrong frowned, but said no more.

Ten minutes later, with the opening of a window, the worst of the smell was starting to clear away. Clara was sitting quietly, hands now trapped in cuffs alchemized to be like those used to restrain rogue alchemists. Mustang had returned to his desk where he was distractedly flipping through some paperwork, mind turning over idea after idea. Hawkeye remained by the door, sharp eyes flicking from Mustang to Clara. After a bit, she shifted subtly, and Mustang glanced up.

"Did you need something, Lieutenant?"

"Sir," she began, "I was just about to deliver some paperwork to Lieutenant Colonel Bristol when you met me in the hall."

"Then, attend to it." Mustang looked down to re-read the same requisition form for the third time.

"Sir?" Hawkeye cut her eyes toward Clara.

"It will be fine, Lieutenant."

Hawkeye nodded and took her leave.

Mustang attempted to finish the requisition form, but gave up on his fourth re-reading and instead pulled the battered watch back out and turned it over in his hands. The metal was oddly pitted. Regularly so.

He frowned and turned his chair to face the window, holding the watch up to the light. As he had thought, the pitting evenly covered both sides. It was almost as though something had been removed from the surface of the metal.  
>Something in the air shifted. Papers rustled.<p>

Calculating quickly, Mustang held up a gloved hand as he swung around. The rapidly building tornado of papers died as his own transmutation claimed control of the air currents. He was instants too late.

Through a swirl of paper, he watched Clara blow him a kiss, hands still shackled. Then, she was gone, somersaulting backward out the open window.

Mustang raced to the window to look down.

Clara lighted nimbly on a flagpole ten feet below the window before dropping the remaining distance to the ground where she landed in a graceful crouch. It paid to stay in practice. Eyes tracking the escape route she had planned from her seat in the office, she smiled to herself. Central Command, eh? It hadn't been much of a challenge thus far. She rose to her feet.

And, froze at the sensation of cold metal on her temple.

"That's far enough," said Hawkeye coolly.

Clara rolled her eyes back toward the blonde woman and then looked up.

Colonel Mustang stood at the window she had just vacated, a smile playing across his lips.

The smile was still there when Hawkeye escorted Clara back to the office, gun down at the small of her back so as to be less conspicuous.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," said Mustang as Hawkeye shut the door. Then, he addressed Clara. "Sorry for letting you go to all that trouble for nothing." He positioned himself in front of the open window. "Now then, as I recall, you were the one who told 2nd Lieutenant Breda about the Fullmetal Alchemist's escapades in Aquroya, weren't you?"

"Yes," Clara answered slowly, wary now.

"Hmm." Mustang clasped his hands behind his back and turned to look out the window. "And, you have quite an interesting skill set. Given your recent escapades," he half-turned, smiling faintly, "I'm assuming _you_ were the infamous Psiren, were you not?"

Clara bit her lip.

Mustang sobered as he faced her once more. "Psiren or not, I _can_ prove that you impersonated a State Alchemist, stole a train – or two from the sounds of it - and attempted to escape arrest. By rights, I should turn you over to the MP's."

Wide blue eyes met his own.

"However," Mustang continued, "I could use those skills of yours at the moment." He smiled. "What do you say? I think I could be persuaded to forget about all this if you help me with a little problem. There's a little something I need you to… retrieve for me."

* * *

><p>Mustang was up to something. Major Frank Archer exited the Investigations building, mentally reviewing the scene in his office as he had for the last several hours. There was still no other conclusion. It was just a matter of determining <em>what<em> the man was up to.

Most likely, he wanted to continue Gran's project. Restoring prestige to the State Alchemists would be in his best interests. The man was a colonel at twenty-nine, and it was his role as a State Alchemist as much as his reputation as a war hero that had propelled him through the ranks so quickly. He wouldn't want to give up such a position.

Mustang had also spent the better part of a month with Fullmetal already. He had to have realized at least part of the truth about Fullmetal's condition. And, as a colonel, he had far more authority to command the alchemist.  
>Archer frowned as he strode along the darkened streets. He could move Fullmetal. Or he could give up Gran's project altogether. It had been a gamble in the first place. With the damages Scar had already caused around Central, his capture might be a far more impressive achievement. And, Fullmetal would make such tempting bait.<p>

Weighing his options, Archer paid only peripheral attention to the woman approaching from the opposite direction. Until she abruptly collided with him.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" she gasped. "So sorry!" Her hands twisted in front of her, fumbling for a bag that had fallen to the sidewalk. "I didn't see you there! I was in such a hurry!"

Archer controlled his irritation at the interruption with a mask of civility. It was only a momentary delay.

"It's alright, Madam," he said. "No harm done." He reached to grab the straps of the bag she had dropped and offer it to her. It was a large doctor's bag. The woman, he saw now, was a nurse, her square cap nestled amid a mass of curly, red hair.

"Oh, thank you!" she gushed, taking the bag. "I'm so sorry! I just—Oh!" She looked up and past him as though searching for a clock. "I'm going to be late! I—Excuse me!"

Then, she was gone, clutching her bag and hurrying away down the street.

Archer shook his head at such foolishness and then turned back toward his own destination. It seemed he had some calls to make.

It was three blocks to the nearest phone booth. Stopping just outside, Archer felt his breast pocket for the black notebook he had slipped inside as he left the office. Even without Fullmetal, it might be useful.

His hand froze in its search. The bulky weight of the book was gone.

"That woman!" Archer swung around. His eyes narrowed. "Mustang!"

* * *

><p>No matter how many times he replayed the brief conversation with Mustang in his head, Edward still wasn't sure how to classify the man. He was either genuinely sincere in his gratitude or a magnificent actor.<p>

Either way, sincere or not, he was plotting something. He had deliberately positioned himself in front of Archer when watching for Edward's response to his parting comment. Which meant he didn't want Archer to know what he knew.

Edward scowled and turned over on his narrow cot. Just another chessmaster probably. He was so tired of being everyone's pawn. And, the worst part of it was that he didn't have to be. He didn't have to play this game and pretend these walls could hold him. As he was now, he didn't even need to clap his hands. He had only to form the proper equation in his mind and release the roiling energy inside him.

It was terrifying. The power he could command. He could cleave walls or armies. He could clap his hands and have the one thing, one _person_ he wanted most in the world beside him in an instant.

But, he wouldn't. He knew the terrible price of such power. If the military saw such a display, they would never stop seeking it. And, Liore would happen all over again. And, again and again.

Besides, the power wasn't his to use, not even for Al's sake.

So, for now, he just had to play along and wait. His chance would come.

"Ma'am, are you lost?"

Edward started out of his musings as he heard the guard outside stand from his usual seat.

"No." A woman's voice. "At least, I don't think so. But, all these corridors do get one so turned around." Her voice drew closer. "I'm here to treat a Mr. Elric. Major Archer sent me."

There was a rustle and clink. A bag?

"Treat?" The guard sounded as confused as Edward felt.

"Yes, he said Mr. Elric is due for some routine shots and asked that I stop by after my shift."

"Shots? I don't— I'd need to hear it from—"

More clinking. The whirr of a zipper.

"Ma'am! Please put that away!"

"It's only a little needle. See?"

A step, fumbling.

"Oh, don't be so silly, Lieutenant. This isn't for you." The woman's voice was teasing now.

"Ma'am, please. I said—"

"Oh, fine, fine."

There was a rustle, a rattle and then a sudden, sharp crack. A dull thump followed.

By this time, Edward was on his feet. A cold draft chilled his skin through the thin shirt and pants he slept in and the smooth concrete floor was cold against his stockinged feet, but he ignored the discomfort. Warily, he raised his hands as, with a rattle of keys, the door swung open.

A woman stood just outside, light from the hall outlining the simple dress and square cap of a nurse. A curly tangle of red hair fell around her shoulders. At her feet lay the sprawled form of the guard and a discarded medical bag.

"Who are you?" Edward demanded. He thought a minute. "And, don't even _think_ about giving me a shot."

The woman stepped into the cell, her face breaking into a brilliant smile. "It _is_ you!" She reached up and pulled the mass of red hair away in one smooth motion. In its place, straight, blonde hair drifted free. Quickly, she began unbuttoning her blouse.

"Wha—?" Edward felt his face heat as she reached the third button. "What are you doing?" he shrieked, turning his head away. Then, realizing that might have been her plan, he looked back.

The dress was gone. In its place was a form-fitting black outfit that could have escaped from a bawdy theater production.

And, it sparked his memory.

"You!" Edward gasped. "With… With the outfit and the playing cards!" More memories flooded his mind. "That idiot arrested me because of you!"

"You _do_ remember!" The woman beamed. "This should be easy then." She pulled a jester's mask from the belt around her waist and tugged it over her head.

Edward's splutter died. "Huh?"

Blue eyes dancing with amusement the woman – Psiren, he remembered – took a step closer, bending slightly with her hands on her thighs to look him in the eye. Just as she had done back in Aquroya. When he was _fifteen_, and shouldn't he be taller now?

"I told you once that, if you ever found that stone you were searching for, I'd steal it for you," Psiren said. A wink. "It's not your stone, but, this time, I'm here to steal _you_."

Edward stared at her. Then, a short laugh escaped his lips. She _had_ offered to steal a Philosopher's Stone for him, hadn't she?

"You have no—"

An alarm abruptly split the evening quiet, drowning his words.

Psiren looked around and swore. "He must have noticed."

"Noticed?" Edward managed.

She shrugged and held up a full hand of cards. "No help for it now."

"But, what're you—?"

In a flash of light, the cards became a sword at his throat.

"I told you," said Psiren, "I'm stealing you."

Edward gulped but made a reflexive grab for his glasses and opted to play along.

As Psiren maneuvered him out into the hall over the guard's unconscious form, he debated the chances that it was all a particularly lucid memory. But, he was fairly certain that he had never been kidnapped in Aquroya. And, as the thunder of booted feet on tiled floors echoed down the corridor, he found that he didn't remember anything more threatening than a single, crazed policeman either. Certainly not a unit of armed soldiers.

"Halt where you are!"

At least eight pistols came to bear on them. But, Psiren's impromptu sword never wavered.

"My, my," she said, "it's been a while since I performed for such a crowd."

"Performed?" Edward choked.

The words stuck in his throat as he felt a rush of movement behind his back. He rolled his head back to catch sight of a stream of water, shot through with blue light, as it arced above him. Edward's eyes widened in realization as the water exploded in a cloud of steam.

But, there was no time to comment as Psiren spun him around and propelled him down the hallway opposite the shouting soldiers. A turn, and he was abruptly shoved into a small, dark room. His face crashed against something rough and ropey, smelling thickly of ammonia. A mop? Snorting at the stench, he twisted around in time to see the last thin sparks of alchemy as Psiren sealed the door.

"How are you doing that?" he demanded. "You've only got one—"

A finger fell over his lips. "Trade secret," Psiren breathed. "Now, you can make us a back door, can't you?"

"What?" Feeling his cheeks heat again, Edward ducked under the finger. He turned back toward the mop as the sound of a human stampede clamored past the sealed door. "Since when did I start helping steal myself?" he muttered, bringing his hands together.

It took a force of will he hadn't anticipated to keep the simple transmutation from pulling at the incredible well of energy inside him. By the time the wall had obediently reformed into an opening, he was covered in sweat. Dazed, he wished his ears would stop ringing. No, not ringing; it was a scream. Dumbly, Edward stared at the auburn-haired woman standing in the center of the office he had just inadvertently invaded.

He felt pressure on his arm, and Psiren was pulling him along again.

"Sorry to intrude!" she called cheerily as she dragged Edward through the office, past the wide-eyed woman and out the door.

Out into another hallway, and, this time, there was a window. A playing card appeared in Psiren's hand, and, before Edward could quite process what was going on, he was being shoved through a large, neat hole in the glass and onto a narrow ledge. Startled, he swore, scrambling for a handhold on the smooth concrete wall.

"It's only the second floor," Psiren assured him. "Now, jump!"

"_Are you cra—_?" She caught his shoulder, and he was falling before he could complete the sentence.

Edward started to orient himself, aiming to take the impact on his automail leg. Light flashed beneath him, and he let out a startled cry as white filled his vision. He swept past – no, through it. Tearing through onto another and then another, he realized that he was plummeting through a stack of alchemized playing cards. Then, the ground was there, hard and unyielding. The shock of the landing echoed up his automail, sending stabs of pain radiating from the port through his thigh.

Psiren landed beside him, disgustingly graceful. "Just so no one gets the wrong idea…" She swung toward him with another hand of cards - a royal straight flush, he noted idly before the cards wrapped themselves around his hands.

"Hey, what's th—?" Edward sputtered.

"You're just an innocent victim, yes?"

She grabbed his shoulder and pulled him along as she broke into a run, following the line of the building down a narrow alleyway. Stumbling beside her, Edward found himself agreeing with that much; he was definitely an innocent victim in this insanity. A freezing one. Warmer temperatures had melted last week's snow, but the ground was still ice under his nearly bare feet.

They rounded a corner and plunged into the thin stream of traffic flowing down the busy road in front of the building. A cacophony of horns and squealing brakes split the night as Psiren blithely dodged the first car and stepped confidently in front of a slower second.

"Wha— You— Car!" Staggering after her, Edward felt his heart lurch into his throat as the vehicle screeched to a halt so close the fender was brushing his knees. Unbalanced, he flopped against the hood.

Psiren just waved merrily to the driver before dragging Edward with her back to the door. As the window started to slowly roll down, she put on a winning smile.

"I'm so sorry to trouble you," her arm slipped over the windowsill, "but, we're in a terrible hurry, and I wonder if I could ask a favor?"

The man at the wheel stared. "Ma'am, what—"

"Oh, good!" The door was unlocked and opened before the dazed man could react. "Thank you so much for loaning us your car!" Still smiling, Psiren waved a hand. Another card sword flashed into being, and she rested it against the man's shirt collar. "If you would be so kind."

With a strangled yelp, he tumbled from the car and scrambled away. Brandishing the sword, Psiren waved Edward into the vehicle.

As he was clambering across the seat, a shout rang out.

"Sir! There they are!"

"Time to go!" Psiren gave Edward a quick shove and dove into the car herself, grabbing for the steering wheel and clutch.

Tossing a look over his shoulder, Edward caught a glimpse of Archer himself at the head of a group of soldiers rushing into the road. But, Psiren was already gunning the engine. The car roared away, and Archer was left with nothing but a cloud of exhaust.

Staring after the vanished car, Archer clenched a fist at his side. Slowly, he released it as he ordered the soldiers with him to put out an alert. For all the good that would do.

Mustang had won this one. But, he still had a hand of his own to play.

It was a wild series of sudden turns and terrifyingly narrow alleys later before Psiren finally stopped the car. Edward had long ago torn his way free of the binding cards to brace himself. Hands locked around the passenger's side door handle and a fistful of upholstery, he finally felt his heart rate begin to slow as Psiren cut the engine.

Turning to look at him, Psiren's smile morphed into a smirk.

"Well, here we are," she said. "It's been fun, but this is where we part."

"Here?" Edward looked out the window to see that they were parked in the shadow of an old warehouse, probably near the outskirts of the city. "Why here? What is this place?"

Psiren tapped her chin in thought. "About two blocks from where I was supposed to turn you over to that young colonel."

Colonel Smug. As he had guessed.

"But, he wasn't terribly specific," Psiren continued with a shrug. "So, it's hardly my fault if you disappear before he makes his way over here."

Edward looked at her curiously. "Why are you doing this?"

"I got into a tiny bit of trouble," she held up a hand, squeezing her thumb and pointer together for emphasis, "and that Mustang fellow offered to forget about it if I 'retrieved' you for him." She winked. "Of course, I'm not sure how far I can trust that, so I'd best be going." She extended her hand toward Edward. "Would you like to come?"

For a moment, he considered it. He would probably be hauled up a fire escape and coerced across half the Central skyline before making some daring final escape atop a train. Like old times. And, he would be free to carry out his plans.

But, he didn't have the notes.

Edward swore.

"What is it?" asked Psiren.

"The notes!" Edward struggled to explain. "There's a notebook with Archer. I need—"

"This notebook?" Psiren reached down the front of her top and tugged out a familiar, battered book.

"You—? Where—?" Half-formed sentences were still tumbling from his lips as the notebook was pressed into his hands. They faded as he flipped it open to familiar pages.

"I 'bumped into' Mr. Archer earlier." Psiren's smile radiated smug self-satisfaction.

"You're amazing." Edward laid the open book on his lap and solemnly brought his hands together. He took a deep breath and reined in the power inside. He needed only the smallest amount for this task. A touch and the notebook crumbled away in a flash of blue light. Edward brushed the dusty remnants off his pants.

"Why did you do that?" Psiren's eyes were wide with surprise.

"Because those notes aren't something anyone should use." Edward shook out his shirttail. "Besides, I'm really tired of looking at them." He grinned.

Psiren stared at him for a long moment. Then, she laughed. "I had heard you were crazy these days."

Edward's grin widened. "Mostly just on Tuesdays. What day is it?"

"Saturday." Psiren smiled back. "So," she opened the driver's side door, "are you coming?"

Edward thought a second and shook his head. "No, there are still some other things I need to do."

He still had to find the copies of his notes. They were incomplete without his handwriting cues, but any hints toward the Philosopher's Stone were a risk he couldn't take.

Psiren's smile faded into something softer. "I see. Well then…"

"Why are you really doing this?" Edward asked suddenly. "You could have run from the beginning."

Psiren hesitated. "Well, I heard about you from one of the Colonel's men who was snooping around out east, and I was curious. But, mostly," she shrugged, smiling sheepishly, "it sounded like a challenge."

Edward smiled back softly. "Alchemists are those who seek the truth," he said quietly. "Thank you."

"Eh?" Psiren looked at him in surprised confusion. "That's not—"

"You _are_ an alchemist, right?" Edward looked her in the eye.

For just a second, Psiren looked away. Then, she was suddenly far too close for comfort, her hands gently cupping his face.

"You really are still the same silly little boy, aren't you?" she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. She leaned closer.

"Wha—? What're you—?" Edward tried to draw away but froze when he felt a soft, warm pressure on his right cheek. Conscious thought screeched to a halt. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he could have sworn he heard more than a few catcalls.

When the shock had faded, Psiren was already standing outside the car, smiling at him.

"It's been fun, little boy," she said. She blew him a kiss and was gone, lost in the night's shadows.

Edward fought to find words. "That— What was _that_ about? Don't just—!" He clambered to the open door, pawing at his cheek where she had kissed him. "Don't _do_ stuff like that!" he screeched into the empty night, blushing furiously.

"I can't imagine what I've done, but I'll try not to repeat it if you insist."

Edward started at the voice.

Colonel Mustang appeared at the corner of the warehouse, faintly illuminated by moonlight. He stepped toward the car and took in Edward's position. The small man was half out of the car with one hand clamped against his cheek, his face as red as a beet.

"So," Mustang ventured, "how does the infamous Psiren kiss?"

* * *

><p>No EdPsiren pairing is intended or meant to be implied in even the vaguest sense. She's just like that.


	17. Book 2: Chapter 17: You Better Watch Out

**Title: **Nameless  
><strong>Author: <strong>Kristen Sharpe  
><strong>Final Checking:<strong> July 25, 2011  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K+  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Violence, blood, named character death - everything you expect from Scar and Kimblee sharing the same scene.  
><strong>GenreContinuity:** AU (alternate/divergent universe) set in the first animeverse.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> "Fullmetal Alchemist" belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, Square ENIX, Studio BONES and various other parties.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Many thanks to SageSK, who got this thing in little pieces and endured countless re-writes and dithering. Also, thanks to Kayca, who read this twice to be sure she didn't miss any details. And, as always, thanks to everyone who has been following this story.

* * *

><p><strong>Book 2: The Deconstruction of the Fullmetal Alchemist<strong>

**Chapter 17: You Better Watch Out**

**July, 1884**

Following Rose and her baby through the streets of Liore at midday with only a hastily transmuted cloak to hide his identity was nerve-wracking. Rose was eerily silent, responding only in small head gestures. Her child was the opposite, determined to voice his displeasure at the world. Despite the danger, it brought a half-smile to Ed's lips. Lyra… Dante was wrong. There was at least one Lioran with real spirit left.

And, Rose as well. Despite the horror behind her eyes, she was here, taking the lead since she knew the city best.

He just hoped that she understood that they had to get out of Liore. Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a plan beyond that point. He couldn't leave; he had to destroy Dante's array. It wasn't safe for Rose to stay. But, someone in her state crossing the desert alone with a baby was tantamount to suicide. And, the nearest settlement – Ishval – was crawling with Amestrian soldiers.

Ed debated the merits of alchemically bleaching Rose and the baby's hair. The soldiers would then only see two more white-haired, dark-skinned Ishvalans. They probably wouldn't look close enough to see dark eyes in place of Ishvalan red. It might work.

Ed was so lost in thought he nearly walked into Rose when she stopped. Stumbling, he looked up at her silent back and then peered past her, around the corner to the street they were about to enter. The road was blocked by two burly men with rifles. More of the rebels.

The alchemist swore under his breath. This was the third street they had found blocked. It would be easy enough to slip out a side street. But, with nothing but empty sands beyond and men scanning the horizon for soldiers at every major thoroughfare, they would be easy targets. He couldn't trust that Liore's desperate rebels wouldn't shoot Rose. Especially if they thought she had turned traitor.

Ed looked down. Maybe he could create a tunnel. Harden the sand to stone. Just to the nearest dune.

Rose suddenly turned.

Ed looked at her in surprise. "Rose?"

There was a tightness around her mouth, a sudden brightness in her eyes.

Wordlessly, she reached out to press her now hiccupping child against his chest. Startled, Ed reflexively stuck his arms out.

"What're you—?"

The baby's warm weight settled against him, an awkward, squirming bundle he struggled to balance. One hand behind the head, right? There had been a baby in Rush Valley once. Miss Satera had said something about minding his head.

Finally getting the baby stabilized, Ed looked to Rose.

"Rose, why—?"

Rose was gone, running down the street toward the two men. What was she doing?

The men looked up as Rose approached.

"Rose?" said one. "What're you doing out here?"

Rose only grabbed the front of his shirt and pointed frantically up the street, past Ed's hiding place. Her mouth moved soundlessly.

"Whoa! Calm down!" said the man. "You're staying with Miss Lyra, right?"

"Is she okay?" asked the second man.

Rose shook her head and pointed again. Then, she stepped back and opened her mouth. A thin, shrill sound escaped her. It was the first thin crack in a crumbling dam. A true scream followed it, high and desperate with the weight of fear and frustration.

The men became frantic.

"Something must have happened!"

"The military?"

"Hey!" Another pair of armed men spilled into the street from a side road. "What's wrong?"

"It's Rose," answered the first man. "There must be something wrong with Miss Lyra!"

"_What?_"

Rose tugged on the man's shirt again before running a few feet back toward Ed. They needed no further encouragement.

"Come on!"

Ed ducked his head and stepped back into the alley as they hurried past. When he dared risk a glance, they were already far up the street, Rose in the lead. Ed swore before clutching the baby closer and running out and down the empty street into the desert.

* * *

><p><strong>Present<strong>

Edward stared at Mustang, trying to process the absurdity of the man's words. How did Psiren kiss? Apparently, by ambush. With a growl, he jerked his hand away from his cheek and struggled up into a proper sitting position.

"What do you want?" he asked. "I didn't receive any orders about this."

"No," said Mustang, stopping beside the car, "I'm sure you didn't. This is something of a side project." He studied Edward carefully. "Besides, it seems you don't always follow orders anyway."

Edward watched him warily. "What do you mean? It's not like I kidnapped myself."

"I was there when Brigadier General Grand ordered you to stay inside the barracks," Mustang continued. "But, you left the barracks to check on Lieutenant Colonel Hughes."

Edward started. "I just called for—" he began quickly.

"You went out the window according to your guards," said Mustang. "And, the barracks seem to have grown a new set of stairs just below your window." He shook his head. "You really need to learn to put things back the way you found them."

"That was an emergency!" Edward flailed for an explanation. "He could have been dying!" _Was_ dying. "I have a duty to… to protect fellow soldiers! It's—"

"Thank you."

Edward's stammered words halted. "What?"

"You went against your orders to save Maes Hughes," said Mustang. His face softened. "For that, you have my thanks."

Edward was quiet a minute. "He's a good man," he said at last. "With a family. I didn't want to think about Miss Gracia crying."

Mustang smiled slightly. "Me either."

Edward studied the man then. Mustang was an enigma. Grand had ordered and demanded. Archer had used subtle intimidation and lies wrapped in thin truths. Mustang seemed to be going for another angle. And, yet…

"Why did you bring me out here?" the gray-haired alchemist asked.

"I've been doing some research of my own ever since General Grand assigned us to that project of his," said Mustang. "You remember the one?" At Edward's nod, he continued. "Research on Ulrich Parker, the Philosopher's Stone and you. Parker's a dead end, but you…" He waved a hand. "The general made it hard for me, and the records of anything beyond your first years of service have been 'edited' until they're nearly useless… But, there are dates that match nicely here and there." Mustang's dark eyes pinned Edward with a sudden, searching gaze. "I know the notes we've been decoding are yours."

Edward kept his face neutral.

Unconcerned, Mustang kept going. "I also know you were searching for the Philosopher's Stone. Then, there's this." A hand dipped into his pocket, and he tossed something toward Edward. It caught the moonlight as it arced through the air.

Holding out his hands to catch the object, Edward stared down at the face of a battered silver watch. "A State Alchemist's watch?"

"Open it," said Mustang.

Suddenly realizing, Edward stiffened. It couldn't be. He had left it in the desert. But, his flesh fingers could feel the familiar deformations along the clasp. Slowly, he opened the watch and turned it into the light. "Don't forget 3 Oct. 79," stared back at him, carved deep into the metal.

"Psiren claims to have found that in the remains of Liore," said Mustang. "The date is six months before you became a State Alchemist, correct?"

Keeping his head down, Edward hoped the other man hadn't seen his expression. "Yeah, I suppose it is."

"So, that was in Liore," said Mustang. "And, just a few weeks later, reports at Fort Briggs indicate a 'rogue alchemist' was captured trying to escape across the Drachman border. Around the same time, you were reportedly taken prisoner by the Drachmans."

Edward felt a cold that he couldn't attribute to the midwinter air. Mustang _knew_.

"Do you know anything about Ishval?" Mustang suddenly asked. "Your file doesn't indicate that you were involved in the war effort."

"I—Ishval?"

Ishval… No, he had never served in Ishval. They had tried to send him. There had been orders for him to serve behind the lines in a support capacity. He only vaguely remembered reading the orders before his head had exploded with the second worst attack he had ever experienced.

Silently, he thanked the voices. The agony they had caused, the weeks-long hospital stay, the morphine-induced nausea – those were nothing compared to what could have happened on the battlefield.

Edward looked up from the memories to find that the dark-haired man had moved closer.

"I served in Ishval when I was just a few years out of the academy," said Mustang. With a sigh, he turned and slumped back against the car, looking up at the sky. "It was a terrible war. The State Alchemists were called in during the last days to end it. Our orders were to eradicate every last Ishvalan, man or woman, adult or child." Mustang's voice dropped. "And, any collaborators."

Edward stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"There were two Amestrian doctors," said Mustang. "A husband and wife. They weren't collaborators." His eyes were distant. "They were just doctors who treated everyone who came to their clinic, Amestrian or Ishvalan. Many soldiers owed them their lives." One hand tightened into a fist. "Because they treated Ishvalans as well, the military ordered that they be executed. There was no trial. Just two bullets from my service revolver. Because it was orders."

The words were flat, devoid of emotion. There were no excuses, just a statement of fact.

"They had a photograph in their clinic," Mustang said after a moment. "It showed them with their daughter. She had the bluest eyes I've ever seen."

For a minute, neither man said anything. Then, Mustang turned slightly to look at Edward.

"I don't want to see another Ishval," he said. "Anymore, I think, than you want to see another Liore."

Edward looked up, studying the other man's face. It had been so long. So very long.

"_Edward_," the voice of his father whispered.

Distantly, he remembered the dark-haired man bending over him as he writhed in agony on a cold, stone floor. The same sincerity had been in those eyes then.

"The Philosopher's Stone," said Edward quietly, "isn't something anyone should ever create or use again. I want to erase all records of it."

"Fair enough," said Mustang. "Did Psiren retrieve that notebook of yours from Major Archer?"

"Yeah. I destroyed it." Edward thumbed over his shoulder into the car. "It's dirtying the floorboards. Now," he rubbed at his arms, "I'm freezing out here." He looked to Mustang expectantly.

The colonel smiled faintly. "My car's this way."

Edward slid out of the stolen car and followed the taller man around the front of the warehouse. As they stepped out of the building's shadow, his eyes fell on the blonde lieutenant he remembered from the night at the Hughes' home. She had a gun at the ready in one hand, and her eyes never stopped searching the shadows as she addressed Mustang.

"All clear, Sir," she said.

Mustang nodded as she fell into step with them. "Archer will be suspecting me, so it would be best if we put Elric up with someone else," he said. "Havoc has an apartment in the north district, I believe." He turned to Edward as they reached a nondescript vehicle hidden in an alleyway. "Is that acceptable?"

It was nice to be asked. He just hoped it wasn't another ruse.

"Fine, I guess."

Mustang nodded and opened the car's nearest door.

Edward stepped up beside him and, rather than getting into the car, peered into its small side mirror on a sudden whim. There hadn't been a mirror in his cell, and Psiren had acted like he was nearly unrecognizable until he started speaking. Just what did he look like these days? Nothing like his father, he hoped. He ignored Hohenheim's wry chuckle at the back of his mind.

Unfortunately, the mirror wasn't any help as Edward found himself squinting hopelessly in the poor light. There was a snap to his right, and orange light washed over him.

Edward jerked and found Mustang extending a gloved hand that cupped a small ball of flame. Fed by transmuted oxygen from the look of it.

"Need a light?" Mustang asked.

Edward huffed at him before turning again to look at himself in the round mirror. He immediately jumped back a step.

"Crap, I'm old!"

"It does tend to happen after a few decades," said Mustang. He arched a brow. "You hadn't noticed?"

"Not exactly, no," said Ed, moving back to the mirror again.

He didn't recognize himself. It wasn't just the "sudden" age; his features were warped beyond recognition. Sagging skin, twisted nose, jaw line sharp and jagged. This wasn't him. Well... At least it wasn't his father either.

Mustang cleared his throat as the light slowly died away. "As entertaining as it is watching you paw at your face like that, we really should get moving."

Realizing that his hands were, in fact, clasped against his cheeks, Edward dropped them to his sides with a scowl. He turned to snap a retort and found a soft bundle thrust into his arms.

"Here," said Mustang, "We'll find you something more appropriate later, but this should keep you from freezing."

Surprised, Edward looked down at the bundle. It consisted of a sturdy coat and a pair of worn but serviceable boots. Quickly, he unfolded the coat to slip it over his thin sleep things. But, something stopped him. Even in the darkness, the coat caught the weak light and glowed back a brilliant red.

"This—" He held it out in surprise.

"You left it nearly a month ago when you had your seizure," said Mustang. "I'd been meaning to return it for a while."

For a minute, Edward stared at the coat. He barely remembered transmuting it from a pair of far more mundane jackets. Then, it had been only a wisp of memory in Fullmetal's fogged mind. Now, it was like an old friend. Smiling faintly, Edward drew the coat around himself and moved to tug on the boots. He knew he looked foolish dressed in boots and pajamas with a garishly crimson coat, but he didn't care. Finally, he felt just a little like himself again.

Covering his growing grin, Edward moved to slide into the back of the car. He was surprised when Mustang followed him.

"Both of us may need to lay low," the man explained as his lieutenant started the car and began to maneuver them out onto the street. "Although, at your height, it may not be a concern."

Edward rounded on him with blazing eyes. "Who are you calling so small he needs a stack of books to see out of the car?" he roared.

Mustang drew back in surprise. Then, shock transformed to mirth.

"So, that's the Fullmetal Alchemist I've been reading about," he said, smirking. He held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you… Mr. Elric?"

"Ed," the older man corrected, taking the hand with his automail right and making sure to squeeze more than was strictly necessary. "Pleased to meet you… Colonel Mustard?"

Mustang's smirk never faded. "Mustang."

Releasing his hand, Edward sat back and considered the task before them. For the first time in decades, however tentatively, he had an ally. At least, an ally with a physical presence.

"I want to find the copies of the notes," he said, coming to a decision. "Archer said his 'sources' thought they were at the library. I think I know where."

Mustang looked at him sharply.

"If Grand kept them there, I'm betting they're hidden in plain sight," said Edward. "With the other travelogues. They're printed; they wouldn't stand out. And, he was always prowling around the place. If he got there first every morning to collect them…"

Mustang only considered it for a moment. "Lieutenant, take us to the National Library."

"Yes, Sir."

* * *

><p>"<em>Cursed.<em>"

In that endless instant, he had been back in Ishval as his people died around him, screaming for mercy.

He _was_ cursed. He had known it since he chose this path. Since he rejected his morality, his name and his God. There could be no redemption. He accepted that. So long as he could drag Ishval's murderers to Hell with him, it was enough.

And, his elder brother had left him the means to achieve that goal. This right arm, his brother's arm, with the marks of forbidden alchemy etched across its skin, had served him well.

And, yet…

Why, in that instant, had it felt like all Ishval was inside him, screaming for release?

It was a question that gray-haired alchemist, the one they called Fullmetal, would answer. He only needed to wait.

The alchemist might be hidden away at any of the military's many facilities, but there was no need to search him out. Eventually, Fullmetal would return, as they all did, here to the library. He only needed to be patient.

* * *

><p>Mustang's lieutenant – Hawkeye, Edward learned – was several leagues above Psiren. Her driving was unhurried, obeyed traffic laws and brought them to a block away from the library in just twenty minutes. As a bonus, no one was in danger of heart failure.<p>

"We'll have to go in the front," said Mustang as they exited the car. "Unless one of your talents is transmuting un-transmutable buildings," he added with a glance at Edward.

It was a rhetorical question, but Edward shook his head anyway. It wasn't even a lie. Yes, with the power he possessed, he _should_ be able to transmute even the library's unique composition, a hodgepodge of rare elements that made that most crucial step of the alchemical process – analysis – all but impossible. But, after his earlier transmutation, he wasn't sure he trusted himself to try again. Even deconstructing the notebook had required fine control not to pull from the souls inside him.

Fortunately, Mustang accepted the answer. He paused to collect a lantern from the back of the car and led them around toward the front of the building.

"I should be able to convince the night watch to let us in," he said. "Lieutenant, keep an eye o—"

"I have a spare watch," Edward offered suddenly.

Mustang paused.

Several minutes later, Mustang's rank and the combined presence of three supposed State Alchemists had awed the guards sufficiently to admit the three of them into the library. Mustang paused in the atrium to get his bearings. A snap of his gloved fingers brought the lantern to life, and he raised it to survey the darkened library.

"Travel would be…"

"Second floor, third stack to the right of the stairs," said Edward. "Runs halfway through the sixth stack, but most of them are junk. Though some jerk fought me for Livingstone's "Wild Western Amestris" until I kicked him in the—"

"Let's just head up to the second floor," Mustang cut in.

Edward blinked. "Oh. Right."

They made their way through the open lobby's orderly rows of reference tables and up the wide stairway to the second floor. True to Edward's memory, books on travel were filed just where he had said they would be. Edward snatched the lantern from Mustang and took the lead as they moved into the stacks. He swung it toward the shelves, eyes skipping over the books' spines as he hurried along. When he suddenly stopped, Mustang nearly fell over him.

"It's not here." Edward stared in confusion at the place where his name should have been.

"Wait." Mustang stepped back the way they had come. "It wouldn't be under _your_ name. It would be under Parker."

"Parker?" Edward frowned as Mustang moved away from him and ran a finger along the P's.

"Ulrich Parker," said Mustang. He waved a hand. "Turn the light this way. Grand gave us your research under his name, remember?"

"Oh, right." Edward smacked his forehead lightly with his free hand. "That Reaction Alchemist guy."

"Here," said Mustang, pulling two slim binders off a lower shelf.

Edward accepted them and, passing the lantern to Mustang, quickly flipped through the pages of first one and then the other. East City, Youswell, Liore. So many years of searching. So many failures. And, a success that was the substance of nightmares.

The alchemist shook off the dark musings. It would be over soon.

"These are the right notes," he said.

"Good." Mustang turned to make his way back to the end of the aisle where Hawkeye was waiting. "Now, let's get you out of sight."

Edward stared at the notes in his hands for a minute. Then, he laid both copies on the edge of the shelf and took a deep breath.

"Elric?" asked Mustang, turning.

"This ends here." Edward focused his thoughts and reached for the wild energy inside. Reining it in, he raised his hands.

A sharp clap echoed through the empty library.

Edward had an instant to stare blankly at his palms, still a foot apart, before all havoc broke loose. The floor under his feet heaved and shattered, throwing him back into the opposite bookcase. The force of it knocked the air from his lungs and set the world spinning with a roar.

Endless minutes later, the sound finally died away. In the silence that followed, Edward fought to understand what had happened. His back was throbbing, and moving caused a curious shifting beneath him. His eyes opened, and he wondered when he had closed them. A great, flat expanse swam into view, faintly gray in the darkness. The ceiling? A darker shape abruptly filled his vision.

"Looking for these?" a voice purred.

He became aware of something pale swinging before his eyes. Pale and square.

The notes!

Edward grabbed for them reflexively, but they moved away.

"Ah-ah. I think not. Now," something slammed him down onto the uneven floor, "what shall I do with you?" A face entered his vision, featureless in the darkness. "Maybe I should start by—"

"Don't move!"

A woman's voice. Ed dared a glance to the right to see toppled shelves, a busted lantern and two dark figures faintly illuminated by a distant window. Colonel Smug and his lieutenant.

Edward felt the man above him stiffen.

"Kimblee, is it?" said Mustang. "Here for some research? Or acting on Major Archer's orders?"

"Just finishing what I started," said the man, Kimblee.

Edward became aware of pressure on his left arm. Kimblee was gripping his wrist. That was bad. Why it was bad was lost in the clouds of fogged memory. But, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Kimblee had the notes.

Thinking no further, Edward jerked his automail knee up squarely between Kimblee's legs. The resulting expletive might have been threatening if it wasn't three octaves too high. Edward didn't waste time smirking. He lunged up, twisting out of Kimblee's grip and grabbing for the notebook.

Stumbling over a mountain of books and the overturned shelf, the pair went down in a tangle of limbs. But, even as he tumbled onto Kimblee, Edward's hands were locked on the notes.

"You little—!" Kimblee's voice was strangled.

Edward relentlessly drove his steel kneecap into the man's stomach.

"Who's a teeny-tiny little man who can't defend himself? Huh?"

Kimblee's fingers loosened, and Edward tore the binder away. Then, he clambered up and over the fallen man, scrambling over the scattered books and broken tile. He broke free of the stacks and hurried to join the colonel and lieutenant in the open landing area at the top of the stairs.

"My, you fight dirty, Elric," said Mustang as Edward came to a stop beside him.

"Yeah, well," Edward floundered, panting, "anything's fair in a fight." He straightened, brandishing the binders. "Besides, I got the notes."

The shelf just behind him abruptly exploded in a spray of fiery confetti. Edward flinched back as burning debris spattered his right cheek.

"What—?" He took another step away, staring at the damage. The shelf was mostly intact, but the books were so much ash.

A wheeze echoed through the library, and Hawkeye released a hiss of disgust. Kimblee was gone. In the instants she had turned toward the explosion, he had taken cover. Slowly, the hoarse wheeze rose into uncontrollable laughter.

Mustang's mouth thinned into a harsh line. "What did you do, Kimblee?" he shouted.

"You took too long, Mustang," Kimblee's voice rang from the stacks. "So, I kept busy while I waited." Several sharp pops sounded from below. "You recognize it, don't you, Flame Alchemist? Trace amounts of hydrogen and oxygen deconstructed from the glue of _one_ book are nothing." A dull boom shook the floor. "But, you know, there are so _many_ books here! And, with a little help from the janitor's supplies…" Kimblee cackled. "Well, my options become nearly limitless."

Another explosion roared through the darkened library from somewhere below.

"And, it's all a chemical reaction," said Kimblee. "No need for sparks." A sneer filled his voice. "But, feel free to use your alchemy anyway. You might trigger some of my little surprises early."

Mustang grit his teeth. "We need to get out of here." He turned to the stairs and jerked to a halt midstep.

A hulking figure stood at the top of the stairs, backlit by the orange glow of fire below. The flickering light turned pale hair yellow, glinted off dark glasses.

"_Him_," Edward breathed.

"Scar," said Mustang.

Scar's hidden gaze swept over them all. "I followed Flame and Fullmetal… To find the Crimson Alchemist here as well… What a fortuitous gathering." His right hand clenched at his side.

"The infamous Scar." Kimblee appeared behind them, hands raised. "And, aren't you three in a bad spot?" Tattooed hands moved together.

Hawkeye was faster. Somehow, a second gun had appeared in her left hand. She snapped both arms out, targeting Scar and Kimblee, and fired.

Edward yelped as a bullet streaked over his head. Kimblee froze as the same bullet clipped his right ear and embedded itself in the bookshelf just behind him. Scar dodged away into the stacks on the far side of the landing

"Sir, the stairs!" said Hawkeye.

"Understood, Lieutenant!" Mustang grabbed the back of the still staggering Edward's coat and propelled him toward the staircase. "Move, Elric!"

The three raced for the stairway as the floor shuddered with a fresh blast from one of Kimblee's chemical time bombs. With another series of shots from Hawkeye, they hit the steps and started down.

"Not so fast!"

Scar had come out of hiding behind them, an angry red light wrapped around his right arm. He slammed his open palm down to the floor at the top of the stairs. There was a pulse, and the stairs began to crumble under their feet.

Edward spun around. "He's deconstructing—!" Without finishing the sentence, he dropped the binders and brought his hands together. "Colonel, Lieutenant! Don't move!" Edward slapped his own hands down against the crumbling stone, willing the energy arcing around him to gather the fragmenting base elements, meld them back into solidity and reach down, down.

The crumbling stairs were consumed by his transmutation, becoming a sloppy pillar under their feet. A falling pillar that slammed into the floor instants later with a teeth-rattling thud.

Mustang and Hawkeye barely maintained their footing. Edward pitched forward against the rough stone, just catching himself on his hands. His breath was coming in gasps. His ears were ringing. And, he felt like the power inside him was going to explode.

"You won't get away that easily."

The deep voice sent a shiver through Edward.

No, no. The man couldn't be _here_. He was on the second floor.

But, as Hawkeye hopped down from the pillar in front of him, gun at the ready, Ed could make out Scar's dark form advancing. Had the man jumped? There were shelves. Maybe he had jumped to the top of one and…

Edward shook his head. It wasn't important. He reached to grab the notes, and his hand swept over bare stone. Edward looked down. The notes were gone.

"No!"

Forcing his eyes to focus, Edward searched the marble tiled floor of the main lobby. The once orderly rows of reference tables were strewn with debris and lit only by the fluttering light of small fires. Dimly, he was aware of the Lieutenant firing again, of Scar retreating. But, it wasn't important because… There! Something square and regular near a set of shelves to his left.

A hand fell on his shoulder.

"Come on, Elric." The colonel. "We need to get out of here."

"I've got to get the notes!" Edward lunged toward the shelves.

"Elric!"

Before Mustang could follow Edward, there was a dull boom overhead. He jumped back reflexively as, in a shower of fiery debris, a chandelier crashed to the floor. Brass bent, and glass sprayed against his legs.

"Colonel!" Hawkeye half-turned, checking to see that her commanding officer was okay.

Mustang started to reassure her and caught a flash of movement over her shoulder. Scar.

"Lieutenant!" Without thinking, he flung out a hand and snapped.

Hawkeye was already spinning back toward Scar. She was just in time to see the Ishvalan bring his right hand down on the floor before Mustang's fireball caught him in the chest. Seconds too late.

In a burst of crimson light, the tiles beneath Mustang and Hawkeye's feet began to break apart. Then, with a roar, the floor gave way. Tile, shattered concrete, desks and the remains of the chandelier all began to collapse into the basement.

Scrambling for solid ground, Mustang watched in horror as the floor disintegrated under him.

"Lieutenant!"

But, a glance confirmed that Hawkeye was already well on her way to safety, throwing herself toward the edge of the growing hole. He needed to do the same.

Slipping and stumbling, Mustang fought desperately against gravity itself as the floor fell away beneath him. A step, a jump. He could see solid ground just feet away. Too many feet.

There was no time to think. No time for anything beyond a single instantaneous decision. The transmutation circle on his right glove already glowing, Mustang flung his hand out to the side and snapped. A small explosion rent the air feet from his right side. Heat washed over him even as the blast propelled him toward the jagged lip of the hole.

Eyes watering, Mustang reached out. His hands closed around something solid, and his falling body jerked to a halt. Good. Now to pull up.

Somewhere, someone was screaming at him.

"Colonel!"

Hawkeye. Forcing his eyes open, Mustang found the lieutenant gripping his arm, trying to pull him over the lip of the hole. Scrabbling with his feet for a purchase below, he tried to help her.

* * *

><p>Against the flickering light of small fires, Edward had collected one binder and was pawing through a mountain of books dislodged by Kimblee's blasts to find the other. The search had led him deep into the stacks. Kimblee seemed to have planted only one bomb at this end of the library, but, while the lack of fire made it safer, it was also darker. And, his glasses had been another casualty of the stairway disaster. So, he went by touch. Hardcover books and anything overly thick were tossed aside without inspection.<p>

Frustrated, Edward growled to himself. "Come on, where is it?"

His eyes were watering from the lingering smoke, the lobby behind him was echoing with shouts and gunfire and the building shuddered again and again as Kimblee's alchemic bombs detonated. There wasn't much time.

Searching fingers played over a slim volume with a paper cover. Edward quickly turned it to the weak, distant light.

"Yes!" he crowed, recognizing the familiar cover. Quickly, he tucked it with its twin in the waistband of his pants and turned to hurry back toward the lobby.

And, ran straight into a now-familiar, grinning figure waiting in the narrow intersection of two aisles.

"I think I owe you some pain, Fullmetal!" Kimblee snarled. He lunged forward.

Edward swung away and around to throw a punch at Kimblee's head. His automail fist sailed harmlessly past Kimblee's long ponytail.

"What—?"

Nearly over-balancing, the gray-haired alchemist staggered. Turn, turn. He had to find Kimblee. Feet tripped over one another as he stumbled upright and collided with a shelf. Finally turned. Barely in time to duck under a hand grabbing for his face. Not in time to miss the second hand that buried itself in his abdomen.

Edward doubled over with a choked gasp.

A hand closed around the back of his neck, digging into his short hair and pulling him up.

"I'm going to take my time with you," Kimblee hissed in his ear.

"Your mistake." Edward rammed his steel elbow back, aiming for Kimblee's stomach. Kimblee was prepared for that, of course. Hopefully, he wasn't as prepared for a roundhouse kick to the—

Edward's thoughts ground to a halt as his kick clumsily brushed Kimblee's chest and left him hopping to regain his balance. A sudden incredible boom shook windows in their frames and sent him reeling into one of the library's support columns.

Kimblee, who had taken a step back, laughed.

"Can't see well? Or just out of shape, old man?"

Edward seethed. "I'll show you old!"

His hands came together with a clap before he grabbed the column again. Gritting his teeth at the surge of energy, he directed a third of the stone mass under his hands into a fist that shot out to punch Kimblee. Hit, the other alchemist flew back into the far wall.

For a minute, Kimblee hung there, head down, trapped by alchemized stone. Then, a snort escaped him. A snort that grew into a full-throated laugh. Kimblee looked up, and his hazel eyes locked on Edward.

"I'm going to have so much fun with you, Fullmetal!" he cackled. He grabbed the stone fist planted in his stomach with both tattooed hands. Crackling energy played over the rough surface. "I'll blow you up piece by piece!" The fist exploded, and Kimblee dropped to the floor. "There was an Ishvalan I started on once." A hand wreathed in the blue glow of a fresh transmutation grabbed the nearest book and hurled it toward Edward.

The smaller alchemist ducked behind the column as the book hit a shelf to his left and exploded. A shower of fiery cinders fell around him like a stinging cloud.

Kimblee stepped toward Edward. "I started with the Ishvalan's face," he said. "Just a few layers of skin off the top. Excruciating, but not fatal." Kimblee slapped a hand against the shelves to his right, sending a pulse of energy down their length and past Edward.

Edward gritted his teeth, risking a glance at the advancing madman.

"Your face isn't much to look at. Maybe I'll start with your eyes," said Kimblee, reaching for another book. "You're already half-blind. And, worthless." Blue light deepened his sneer. "I heard about you, you know. Really, a nice explosion is all you're good for!" He flung the book into the shelves behind Edward.

As the book took flight, Edward abandoned his hiding place and lunged at Kimblee with a growl. Behind him, gases escaping the transmuted books ignited, consuming aged leather and dry paper in an instant. Hungry flames shot for the ceiling, and the gray-haired alchemist felt heat wash over him. But, he ignored it, focused only on Kimblee.

His charge caught the taller man at waist height and sent him to the floor. As they fell, Edward drew back his automail arm.

"I can see you fine at this range!" he roared.

His steel fist met Kimblee's nose with a satisfying crunch. The mad alchemist stared at him blankly for a moment before slumping bonelessly to the floor.

Edward disentangled himself and stood, looking down at Kimblee.

"And, get off my lawn," he said.

Checking the binders in his waistband, Edward hurried back to the main lobby. And, stopped short at the sight awaiting him. Half of the floor was gone, vanished into a gaping hole. Overhead, fire was consuming the second floor and licking at the ceiling. Across the lobby, Mustang was dangling half in the pit, one foot precariously balanced on a crumbling wall below. Lieutenant Hawkeye was just releasing one of his hands to grab for her sidearm as Scar advanced on them.

Edward's eyes widened. "Hey!" The word had left his mouth before he thought it through. Well, no taking it back now. He stepped forward as the Ishvalan looked up. "You! Scar or whatever your name is, we need to talk."

He had planned to meet the red-eyed man again, but this wasn't the time for that encounter. The power inside him was already roiling, straining at the confines of its feeble, flesh container. But, there was no help for it.

Scar froze in place. After a long minute, his deep voice rumbled out over the low roar of the flames.

"Fullmetal Alchemist. You are correct." He began to move toward Edward, stalking along the edge of the pit. "We _do_ need to talk."

"Elric, what are you doing?" shouted Mustang as he fought to pull himself up and onto solid ground.

An identical, unvoiced question echoed from Hawkeye's taut face as she kept her weapon trained on Scar.

"I can handle it," Edward called back, slipping among the remaining reference tables. His eyes never left the approaching Scar. "You and the lieutenant get out of here."

"Elric!"

Edward tuned the colonel out. He had to do this. He was better equipped to deal with Scar's destructive alchemy than anyone alive. And, this was one more step in his plan. One step closer to his goal.

"Explain it to me," Scar demanded as he drew nearer. "What did you mean 'cursed'?" He held up his right arm. "Why, when I touched you, did I hear my people crying out?"

Edward's eyes narrowed. "You've never heard them before?"

"Never!" Scar's fist clenched. "What trick of your accursed alchemy is this?"

"It's that arm that's the curse," said Edward.

Scar's entire body jerked. "This was my brother's arm!" he snarled.

Edward felt something inside him twist. "Your brother's—?"

"Yes, he—"

The sudden widening of Scar's eyes was Edward's only warning.

With a sound between a roar and a mad laugh, Kimblee launched himself from the top of the nearest table, hands crackling with energy. Edward only had time to twist and reflexively throw up his right arm.

Kimblee caught it in one glowing hand, and Edward realized his mistake too late.

"I told you, Fullmetal!" Kimblee cackled as a surge of energy ripped through the automail's steel frame. "I'll take you apart piece by piece!"

With a shriek, the automail tore itself apart. Metal shrapnel flew free.

Laughing, Kimblee caught the largest piece, the central support column, and spun. For once, Scar was too slow as Kimblee hurled the jagged metal into his abdomen.

Behind him, Edward slipped to his knees, biting down a scream. The force of the explosion had clawed its way up into his shoulder port and the nerves hidden there.

"That's one annoying arm out of the way," Kimblee cackled as Scar stumbled backward. "Shall I make it two?" Blood trailed from his crumpled nose, and he idly licked away a trickle of crimson at the corner of his mouth. "I never did finish with you after all."

Clutching his side, Scar looked up. "_You,_" he hissed in a voice filled with all the ominous promise of distant thunder. "Crimson Alchemist."

Kimblee smiled. "I wondered where your brother's arm went," he said. "All that blood on the sand. I let him bleed for a while, you know. And, he _still_ held out longer than I thought he would."

Scar's answer was an inhuman scream of rage as he threw himself at Kimblee.

Gripping his throbbing shoulder so tightly his knuckles shown white, Edward scooted himself back under the nearest table as the two combatants swept past. A curse hissed out through his teeth.

Flickering with destructive energy, Scar's right arm just missed Kimblee's face as the grinning alchemist dodged back.

"Temper, temper," Kimblee taunted. "Besides…" There was the whump of a small explosion, and blood spattered over the tables. "You have more important problems, don't you?"

Scar staggered and looked down at his stomach in shock. His heavy jacket was stained a thick crimson. The metal that had stabbed deep into his abdomen was gone. Instead, there was only a dark, gaping hole.

"Now, about that arm…" Kimblee moved toward him.

Scar lurched away. His left hand clutched futilely at the wound.

Kimblee followed him, face stretched in a horrible grin.

As they stepped back into the maze of tables, a foot shot out to tangle with Kimblee's and send him to the floor. The mad alchemist snarled in fury, tattooed hands flailing for a hold. He looked to his right and could just make out a pale face in the darkness under the table.

"Fullmetal!"

Edward pushed himself back with his feet as Kimblee made to lunge after him.

"That's _enough!_"

The crack of a gun split the air, and Kimblee froze half under the table.

"Elric, get out of there!"

The colonel. Finally.

Edward huffed out a sigh of relief and clambered out the other side of the table. Once free, he looked up to see Mustang and his lieutenant with their guns trained on Scar and Kimblee.

"Took you long enough," he muttered, struggling to push himself up with his one remaining arm.

"Sorry, Elric, I was trying not to fall to my death." Mustang's eyes never left Kimblee.

"You're such a spoilsport, Mustang," said Kimblee. His eyes were focused on the floor in front of him. "You were like that in Ishval too."

"Normal people don't revel in death." Mustang's eyes were hard.

"Death is just the inevitable. What I enjoy is the thrill," said Kimblee. "The excitement." His hands splayed across the floor as the library shuddered with a blast that rained plaster around them. "It's no fun in prison. So, maybe it's time for a gamble." He smiled.

Edward was the first to realize it.

Scrambling back, he shouted, "Mustang, the floor!"

The floor under Kimblee was dark, discolored.

Mustang swore at the sight. "Lieutenant, get away!" He started to move himself.

"Colonel!" Hawkeye's aim swung away from Scar.

Mustang half-turned and saw reaching hands and maddened eyes. Bringing up a hand, he snapped.

The small, contained fireball caught Kimblee in the face. With a screech of pain, he grabbed for his eyes. Howling, he stumbled backward and crashed into the tangle of tables. Just above the transmuted floor. A floor that was starting to glow.

A flash, and white fire consumed Kimblee.

There were still spots in Edward's eyes long after the ringing in his ears stopped. Coughing, he struggled to sit up. It had been so much easier with two arms. As his vision cleared, he found himself precariously close to the gaping hole at the center of the lobby. In front of him there was a new hole clogged with a jumble of broken tables. The edges of the hole still burned a hot white. Magnesium? The floor must be dolomite marble or something similar.

But, even an alchemist's scholarly detachment couldn't stop his eyes from finding the twisted, smoking form of Kimblee sprawled over the wreckage at an impossible angle.

Edward gritted his teeth and looked away. He could see the blue clad shapes of the colonel and his lieutenant lying in the floor to his right. Levering himself up, he started to move toward them.

A wet cough from the fresh crater stopped him. Impossible. There was no way Kimblee could be alive.

Edward turned.

No, not Kimblee. A pile of wood heaved up, and Scar pulled himself from the wreckage. He took a step. And, immediately crumpled, left arm cradling his ruined stomach.

Edward only thought about it a moment before he moved toward the Ishvalan. He picked his way around the debris until he was staring down at Scar.

The larger man looked up and raised his right hand. Knuckles cracked ominously.

"Don't think you've won, Alchemist," he said. His breath was coming in short pants. "I can still take one more of you with me."

"Won what?" said Edward, watching him intently.

"_Would you help me?_" he asked the audience in his mind.

A whisper of faintly bemused, disgruntled, surprised agreement answered him.

"_Edward…_" his father murmured.

Why was the old man feeling proud?

He wasn't doing anything noble. He just didn't want _them_ to win. Kimblee. Grand. Dante.

People weren't raw materials. They were more than the sum of their parts. Immeasurably more. Not realizing that had been his first mistake.

"Stay still," he told Scar, reaching out with his left hand.

Scar did. Neither attacking nor lowering his hand. "What do you mean to do?"

"Keep you alive," said Edward.

He was so tired. But, he just had to knit the flesh together a little. Just enough to seal ruptured organs and prevent the man from bleeding to death. He could control the energy that long.

His fingers grazed the edges of the terrible wound, and a warm red light spread over it.

Scar sucked in a sudden breath and his entire body stiffened. But, he didn't move.

Good. This was hard enough. The incredible, impossible power that was forming tissue where there had been none was threatening to break free of his tenuous control. Edward set his jaw and focused on the equation in his mind. Just a little more.

New flesh sealed over the worst of the damage.

His hand was shaking, Edward realized. His entire body might have been shaking. He wasn't sure. It was time to stop. Exhausted, he fought to rein in the power, to pull away.

Scar moved. "How is this possible?" He reached and caught the alchemist's wrist in his right hand.

The world went red.

* * *

><p>Mustang woke to screams and fire. For an instant, he expected to feel hot sand under his hands. But, there was only cool stone.<p>

Stone? The library.

He looked up and around.

Hawkeye was beside him – safe, thank goodness – and already taking stock of their situation. The library was starting to burn in earnest now. But, the fire's orange glow was nothing compared to the coruscating light just feet in front of them.

The Fullmetal Alchemist was glowing like a star. A star that shone a bloody crimson.

His coat flapped around him in the backlash of released energy. His only remaining hand was locked with Scar's right.

Scar sat frozen, somehow not bleeding half as much as he should be. His right arm, locked against Elric's left, was wreathed in swirling designs that burned red.

Both men were loosing throat-tearing screams.

Mustang stumbled to his feet. He had to stop this.

It was almost as though they had been waiting for him to move.

The glow around Scar's arm abruptly flickered and died. A last tendril of red light swept across it and vanished. The big man immediately slumped back, his scream trailing off into silence.

Edward staggered away. The glow around him was brighter than ever. As he turned, Mustang realized that it was centered in his chest. Right where his heart should be there was a brilliant, pulsing light.

"What on—?"

There was a muffled shout behind him. Mustang looked back quickly.

Hawkeye was pinned against a tall figure in blue. Even in the shuddering red light, Mustang quickly recognized the sharp, pale face. Major Archer.

Hawkeye's brown eyes burned with silent fury as Archer pressed the barrel of his sidearm under her chin. His other hand slithered around her waist to pull her own sidearm free of its holster and level it at Mustang's chest.

"Well, Mustang, it seems it was worth the effort of coming out here after all," said Archer. He inclined his head toward Edward, who had collapsed to his knees, still screaming. "I knew you would move to claim everything as soon as you could. But, I'm amazed you were so foolish as to bring Fullmetal along." He pressed the gun deeper into Hawkeye's soft tissue. "However, it seems to have all worked out."

"Worked out?" Mustang ground through his teeth.

Archer smiled thinly. "I rather think _this_ is what Brigadier General Grand was searching for." Red light reflected in his pale eyes. "I did some research of my own. The Philosopher's Stone, also known as the Crimson Elixir or sometimes the Red Tincture. A source of near limitless power."

"It's a legend," said Mustang flatly. "What you're looking at is a very ugly rebound and, if you ever want to ask Elric anything again, you should let me stop it."

"Now, Mustang," said Archer, "surely you can think of something better than that? It's obvious even to a non-alchemist like myself." His smile deepened as he tracked the regular throbbing of the red light in Edward's chest. "Who would have imagined it could exist within a heart? I suppose that's one way to hide it for decades."

Mustang glowered at him, subtly shifting his gaze toward Hawkeye's taunt face. She flicked her eyes toward her left hand.

Ah. He had wondered about that.

"Major Archer—" he began. Distantly, he finally heard sirens.

"I'm afraid I don't have any more time for pleasantries, Colonel," Archer interrupted. "I will be taking the Fullmetal Alchemist back to Fuhrer Lockheed. Congratulations. Your precious State Alchemist program may yet have its uses." He smiled thinly. "Too late for you, I'm afraid. You will need to have a tragic accident here with Scar and the rogue Crimson Alchemist. I'm sure it can be painted suitably heroic."

"No one will believe Scar _shot_ me," said Mustang acidly.

"No. But, perhaps it was your lieutenant here in the crossfire." Archer twitched Hawkeye's sidearm. "Her aim is quite famous, but… well, everyone makes—"

A shot cracked across his words, and Archer screamed in pain as hot fire shot through his left foot. At least for the second he had air to scream. Before Hawkeye's elbow rammed into his throat as she twisted away from his sidearm. Her own, small backup pistol was still smoking in her left hand. A pistol that came up and around to target the staggering major's chest.

Archer took a step back, another. And, he was suddenly on the lip of the pit Scar had created earlier. His arms swung out, pinwheeling uselessly in the air. For an instant, it seemed to work before gravity claimed its due, and he toppled backward into the waiting void.

The sound that escaped Hawkeye as Archer disappeared was less of a sigh and more of a huff.

"I suppose everyone _does_ make mistakes," she said. She looked back to meet the twist of lips that was Mustang's smile. A similar expression tugged at her own lips before she sobered. "Sir."

"I know, Lieutenant." Mustang turned toward Edward.

Unfortunately, he had no idea how to calm an out of control reaction fueled by the Philosopher's Stone itself.

* * *

><p>It hurt. Like Liore all over again. As the souls from Scar's arm poured into him, Edward felt their confusion, their fury, their terror. He had planned for it. But, you can't plan for the weight of souls. Not really. And, his plans had never included the power he already hid trying desperately to break free.<p>

Seconds felt like eternity. He was full, overflowing. Exploding in slow motion. There was nothing left inside him but a torrent of unimaginable energy. Of raging emotion and foreign memory.

The lines of self and other, past and present blurred, and he wasn't quite sure who he was.

"_Amestrian!_"

Yes, the Amestrians had come with bright promises and magic they called alchemy. But, the elders said their alchemy was wrong, a sin.

Except alchemy was not magic, merely science. Until you crossed the threshold into the unforgivable. Then, there was sin.

"_You won't take us!_"

The Amestrians in blue who came to take the territory they had coveted from afar. But, there would be no surrender. Ever.

The men in blue who came to take the power they had coveted for generations. But, he would never surrender. Ever.

"_Release us!_"

Release. They needed to... He needed to… There was a plan.

"_Edward…_"

A faint, singular voice. No. _The_ voice. The familiar voice. Hohenheim. _Old man._ Barely audible in the maelstrom.

"_You planned for this. _We_ planned for this. We are ready. Let us help you._"

Help?

"_Ed,_" a softer voice. "_It's time._"

"_Hold on._"

An unimaginable roar swept through him. A rush of souls as the ten thousand lives stolen in Liore moved as one to wrap around the lost souls of Ishval. Shielding him. So he could remember. So he could think. So he could finish this.

Slowly, he returned to himself. To one soul, one life. He was Edward Elric. And, he had made a promise.

Edward opened his eyes to glowing, burning red. _He_ was burning red.

Just feet in front of him the colonel was staring at him in something like horror. And, over the tumult within and the roar without, he could just make out words.

"Elric, can you hear me? Edward! _Ed!_"

Edward smiled.

Mustang's eyes widened at the sight and more words tumbled from his moving lips, but Edward was deaf to them now. He had heard what he needed to hear. And, there was no more time. This was not the place he would have chosen, but it would do. He was ready.

He stood and raised his hand. With a thought, a current of wild, crimson energy whipped across the floor, re-shaping stone to his will. An elaborate transmutation circle grew under his feet. The circle that was etched indelibly into his memory.

It was his worst nightmare. His mistake. His sin.

Now, it could be his only redemption.

"_Al…_"

Edward pulled the notes from his waistband.

"_This ends here._"

Paper disintegrated in his hand.

The gray-haired alchemist then looked to find Mustang's wide-eyed stare.

"If you really never want to see another Ishval," he said, voice a croak, "please forget what you've seen here. And, if I've earned any favors for saving Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, please… take care of my brother."

Mustang's mouth moved.

"_Brother?_"

Edward only looked away, down at the dark outline of the human transmutation circle beneath his feet. He checked his adjustments quickly. Here the equation that would smooth altered stone. There the runes to force the reaction down in the event of a rebound.

"_I'm sorry,_" he whispered to the souls of Liore and Ishval as the lines on the floor glowed blue. "_This is the only thing I can do for you._"

"_Edward._"

"_Ed._"

"_Thank you._"

Blue turned to angry purple shot through with threads of black. And, in the space of a heartbeat, the world fell away around him and he was once again a little boy standing before a power he did not understand.

The Gate of Truth rose from a plain of endless white. Darker than black. A single absolute in the realm of the ephemeral.

A sound escaped it. Not quite a rumble, never a voice. It spoke to his soul, and Edward understood.

"I want Al," he said. "All of him this time. All of him for all of me."

A query.

"No!" Edward's hand slashed through the nothing. "_I'm_ the toll. They're… I just want you to take them wherever they need to go now. To whatever is beyond, wherever they can be at peace."

Agreement.

And, the great doors began to creak open.

"Edward…"

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Edward was suddenly aware that he wasn't alone. A tall man stood beside him, broad-shouldered and golden-haired.

Edward looked up in shock and then around, realizing he was surrounded by hundreds, thousands of people.

"Ed."

Rose caught his left hand between her two, warm hands and looked at him with eyes that were bright with more than tears.

And, there were so many more behind him. Some smiling, some crying, some hopeful, some frightened. Some in uniform, some not. Blond and brunette and snow white. Amestrian and Lioran and Ishvalan.

"Edward, you cannot do this," said the man he knew must be his father.

"It's done," Edward snapped. "There's no other way."

"Yes," Hohenheim answered, "There is."

"Ed," Rose's hands squeezed his warmly, "thank you."

Edward felt hot tears prick his eyes. "Don't thank me. I couldn't save you."

"But, you did!" Rose leaned in, fierce now. "You saved my son. You gave me hope." She looked down. "And, I want to thank you."

She released his hand and stepped forward.

Several men moved with her. Edward was surprised to recognize the faces of the Lioran rebels.

The surprise kept him from realizing what they were doing until Rose was before the Gate. She looked back once.

"Tell Al 'hi' for me, okay?"

Too late, the truth hit Edward.

"_Rose!_"

But, tiny, night dark hands were already winding around Rose and the men with her, drawing them into the unfathomable darkness.

"Rose, what are you doing?" Edward screamed.

But, now everyone was moving forward. Soldiers clapped him on the back, smiled at him. A woman patted his hand. A grinning old man thumped his shoulder and told him to, "Find that gal in the black outfit; she was a looker." Even a stern Ishvalan priest gave him a solemn nod before stepping into the Gate.

"_What are you doing?_" Edward tried to run after them, to stop them, but a firm grip on his shoulder held him.

"Edward," said Hohenheim, "this is their choice."

"But—!" Edward turned wild eyes on his father. "I didn't ask them to— It's my fault most of them are here. I couldn't—"

"Edward," Hohenheim bent and drew him into a sudden hug, "you did everything you could."

"I didn't. I—" Hot tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he somehow couldn't find the will to push away the man who had never been a father to him.

He could almost feel Hohenheim's smile as the man's rough beard brushed his neck. "Be safe, Edward. You and Alphonse."

Then, the larger man released him and moved away.

"I wish the both of you every happiness," he said as the Gate's reaching hands caressed his shoulders.

"Old man," Edward choked. "_Dad._"

"This time, just _live_."

Hohenheim's smile was the last thing he saw.

* * *

><p>Roy Mustang could only stare in open-mouthed shock. At his side, Hawkeye was in a similar state. Edward Elric and his transmutation circle had disappeared in a burst of blinding light. In their place, lying atop a blackened patch of marble, were two young boys.<p>

One was stark naked, short blond hair framing a rounded face.

The other was wrapped in a tattered red coat, long blond hair tangling around his head. And, his right arm was gone. But, in the flickering light of the fire, there was a gleam of metal just visible through the ruins of his right sleeve.

* * *

><p><strong>End Book 2<strong>

Was it worth the wait?


End file.
